Out of Place, Out of Time
by seafarer
Summary: A bizarre client, an insane story, and an intriguing mystery... When Frodo Baggins accidentally finds himself trapped in 21st century England he must find his way home with the aid of Sherlock Holmes, the world's rudest, most brilliant detective ever.
1. Prologue

**Out of Place, Out of Time**

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Lord of the Rings belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and estate;

Sherlock belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and estate, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat, and the BBC

major spoilers for both

This tale takes place during Return of the King (May 14th) and A Scandal in Belgravia (season 2, ep. 1)

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Kudos to Chamelaucium for helping me get Britain right. I'm not British.

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 **Prologue**

We all know that JRR Tolkien's world of Middle-Earth was just a story. It was too filled with magic, and too irrational for it to ever have been true. For a moment though, let us pause. What if the stories, all of them, were true? What if somehow Tolkien found out the true history of Europe, and all of the world? What if, for one moment, we took a step back and discovered that the world that we live in has more magic and wonder in it than we realise? And what if, for a brief moment in the vast history of time, Time curled back and touched itself? What if a bridge was formed, and the realm of what's known suddenly became the realm of the impossible...

-0-0-0-

"O, Sam, you should come and see this!"

There was a nervous pause, and then, "Beggin' your pardon, Mr Frodo, but if'n it's all th' same t' you I'll jus' stay here."

Frodo Baggins smiled at the words. Poor Sam wasn't fond of heights, even if he _had_ done a lot of mountain climbing over the last eight months, and the drop just beyond the five foot wall was at least hundred feet to the cobbles below. His fear was understandable, especially in a three and a half foot tall hobbit.

Frodo, who had a much better head for heights than the average hobbit, was standing on a bench next to the wall in order to see over it, but at these words he turned away from where he was gazing across the vast expanse of the city of Minas Tirith to give his friend a reassuring smile. "It's not bad if you don't look down," he urged, "and the view is marvellous."

"Th' view," Sam muttered, paling a little.

"He is right, Lord Perhael," the tall guard who had brought them to the top of the tower interjected, stepping up behind Sam. "One cannot say that he has truly visited this guard tower until he has seen the city from here."

The little gardener flushed red up to the ears at being called 'lord'. "Then I think I'll jus' be keepin' my visit unofficial as y' might say," he said, crossing his arms and planting his feet more firmly. "Beggin' your pardon, Master Guardsman, sir, but I don't do heights on th' best o' days."

The guardsman looked at him with concern, but Frodo smiled at the familiar words. "Very well, Sam," he agreed, dropping the subject. He gave the wall surrounding the top of the tower a look of interest. "How long has this tower been built, Master Belecthor ?"

"Some five hundred years, my lord."

 _My lord_. Frodo's face, so animated a moment ago, grew white. "Thank you," he said stiffly and turned his gaze back to the view. Behind him he heard shuffling sounds as of feet moving away and then Sam muttering in a low tone, "Y' oughtn't t've called him that, sir. He asked y' t' call him Master Baggins earlier 'cause he didn't want y' callin' him 'lord'."

"Is he not pleased with his title?" The guardsman sounded confused.

"Well, hobbit-folk don't have lords, an' that's about half th' problem right there. Even th' Thain who rules th' Shire in th' king's stead ain't exactly what you'd call a 'lord'—"

Frodo glanced back and then sighed. They stood twenty feet from him and spoke in low tones, yet he could hear every word that they spoke as plainly as if they stood beside him. _Curse these blasted ears!_ he thought, swatting irately at them. With a grumble he slid off the bench and stalked further away. It was a shame, really, for the view had been lovely. The sunlight was at the right position just now to strike all of the white roofs and spires built along and into the seven tiers of the city (although from where he now stood there were two above him) and the light had spilled and splashed its way down the steep incline like a great stone waterfall, beyond which was the green of the Pelennor Fields. It was Thrimidge, that is May amongst the Big Folk, and all the grass was bathed in green. Yes, the city was made of stone, but if one dared to look down he could see green gardens and grass patches beginning to dot the White City. Minas Tirith was beginning to bloom again, and this realisation brought a lift to Frodo's heart like nothing else could, for growing things are in the lifeblood of all hobbits and to see nothing but stone for miles seems to them a very dreary and disheartening sight, but especially to this hobbit who just that winter had thought that he would never again see another spring. Even now he was unwell at times, due to his ordeal, but this morning he'd woken to the song of birds in the air and with a smile on his face and a lightness in his footstep that hadn't been there for several days; since Aragorn's coronation in fact, just thirteen days ago.

On the far side of the tower from Sam and the guardsman there was a shallow alcove in the main wall where a bench stood that was just big enough for a hobbit to lie down on comfortably. Frodo peered into the alcove with curiosity. What was the purpose of this little place? It looked unused, as if no one ever came there. He threw a nervous glance at the ceiling, looking for cobwebs, but thankfully saw none.

Inside the alcove it was very dusty, and deeper than it had looked from the outside. Unlike the other recesses that he had seen this one didn't have any tools or weapons in it. There was nothing but dust and the bench, which he climbed onto gratefully.

It certainly felt good to be off his feet. He and Sam had been exploring the fifth circle since just after second-breakfast, which they had finished near half-past nine, and now it was nearly one o'clock and high time for luncheon. He took a drink from his water-skin as he mused on this rather important subject. Sam was intending to make his Shire-famous fish stew for supper, and Frodo was both looking forward to the event because he had always enjoyed Sam's fish stew, and dreading it because lately his stomach didn't remember that he enjoyed fish of any sort. For elevenses they had enjoyed a picnic of beef pasties that his cousins, Merry and Pippin, had made the night before (to the detriment of the kitchen), cheese wedges, snap-peas and carrots, strawberries, and some wonderful biscuits flavoured with that lemon fruit that grew here. Frodo's stomach growled at the mere thought of them.

 _Beef for elevenses, fish for supper, tea will likely be more pasties_... _perhaps chicken for luncheon?_ Merry and Pippin had been raving about an inn that they'd found on the fourth circle that sold as toothsome a chicken pie as any you could expect to find in the Shire. It even had mushrooms in it, they claimed. Not as many as a Shire pie would have, of course, but enough to give the pie a decent flavour.

Frodo sighed. It would be a walk to get there yet, though, and they didn't know where the inn was. Perhaps it would be better to return to the house in the sixth circle. They could have some bread and jam while they cooked some of that lamb in the cellar... He shook his head. It was almost too late to be cooking anything now. By the time the food was ready it would be time to start preparing for tea.

 _Perhaps Sam has some ideas,_ he mused as he hopped off of the bench, closing his eyes and shivering a little as a chill breeze swept by. Instinctively he drew his Lórien cloak closer about him

...and found himself standing in the open air; a narrow river running past to his left.

He stared for a moment in bewilderment. What was this?

Men and women, all in the most outlandish garb that he had ever seen, were walking past him and around him, talking and laughing and acting as if they had every right to be there. Smells of food and spices and dirty water filled his nostrils and the clamour of a busy market assailed his ears. Was this a vision? Was he dreaming?

"Sam?" he called in a shaky voice.

He felt as if he couldn't breathe. Where was the tower, the walls, the view of Minas Tirith? There was blue sky above him and dirty reddish-grey brick had replaced the stone of the floor beneath, and a fair or market of some sort stood to his right.

This...this couldn't be.

"Sam?" His call was louder this time, slightly more desperate and rising in pitch as his bewilderment increased. A few people paused and looked at him in concern, but the hobbit was so flustered that he didn't notice.

"Are you okay?"


	2. 1 The Disorienting Guardsman

**Chapter 1 - The Disorienting Guardsman**

"Are you okay?"

Frodo spun around toward the unfamiliar voice. It belonged to a tall man ( _but then, almost anything is tall to a hobbit_ ) with light, closely cropped hair, carrying a bag made of a brown stuff and wearing an oddly-cut _jacket_. Frodo stared slightly at this, having not seen anything like a jacket since leaving home, except on a certain ranger from the North.

As Frodo stared at him in shock (and not a little confusion) the man stepped closer. "You look a bit lost," he continued, sounding concerned. "Do you need any help?"

Frodo swallowed, trying to wet his dry throat, to regain control of his reeling senses. "Y-Yes. I - fear that I am," he stammered. "Could you tell me where I am, please?"

"Yeah," the man nodded. "If you follow the pavement that way" he indicated the path ahead of himself, at Frodo's back "about five or seven booths you'll find the ramp that'll take you up to Horse Tunnel Market, or you can go that way" he shifted his bag a little to jab his thumb behind him "about—, well I'm not really sure how far it is, but that way will take you to the Market Hall entrance." His frown deepened into confusion as he looked the hobbit over. "On our way to a Halloween party, are we?" he added casually.

Frodo scarcely noticed the words as he looked back and forth in bemusement. "The horse market?" he muttered, "but that's..I thought that..."

He looked back up at the man, a light flush of embarrassment colouring the centre of his cheeks. "I do beg your pardon, sir, I am..where?"

The man's concern deepened. "You're in the middle of Camden Market," he answered, as if speaking to a young child. "In Camden."

Frodo felt very foolish. "I'm sorry, where is that?"

The man sighed. "Right, where are your parents? Are they around here somewhere?"

The Baggins found himself instantly straightening a little, holding himself a little more stiffly. "They died several years ago," he answered in the most dignified tone that he could manage given the circumstances. "I understand that because of my height you have mistaken me for a child, but I assure you, sir, I am a full-grown adult of my people."

"Your people?" The man's frown became more puzzled, and sceptical.

"I am a hobbit, sir."

"A what?"

"One of the periannath."

The man eyed him again. "Ah-ha," he nodded slowly, in the manner of one who doesn't entirely understand but pretends to. "And what brought you to Camden Market today?"

Frodo found himself looking around uncertainly again as he searched for anything familiar. "I-I'm not sure," he admitted softly. "I'm not entirely certain how I came here."

"Well, it was probably through one of the gates," the man offered, a bit condescendingly to Frodo's mind.

The hobbit shook his head. "I do not remember such a thing."

"Okay," the man shifted his bag to his other arm. "What do you remember?"

Frodo studied the man warily for a moment. Should he really trust him? The man waited. Finally Frodo said, "I was sitting on a bench in one of the guard towers in the fifth circle. When I stood up, however, I was - here." His blush deepened.

The man was frowning sceptically again. "..You were here," he echoed.

Poor Frodo felt as if his entire face must be the colour of one of the Widow Rumble's poppies (although in reality the only colour that the man could see in the hobbit's white face were the two spots of bright pink in his cheeks)."Yes," he admitted softly.

"All you did was - stand up?"

"Yes," Frodo murmured.

"Hm," the man muttered. He leaned closer to Frodo, looking him over; looming over him. The hobbit forced himself to remain still. After all, the man, though rather sceptical, had done him no harm. _Yet._ The word pounded through his heart and mind.

"Could you direct me to the nearest guardsman?" he asked quickly.

"The nearest what?" the man demanded, sounding confused again.

"A guardsman," Frodo repeated. "One of those who guard the city and protect the people."

The man backed away a little. "That sounds like the police," he said.

Frodo flushed again. "I'm sorry, the what?"

The man's look became sceptical again. "The police. You know, the people who protect people and make sure that everyone follows the rules?"

"That does sound like a guardsman," Frodo agreed thoughtfully. "Perhaps I've simply never heard the name before."

"Never heard the—" the man broke off abruptly. "Right," he muttered under his breath, although Frodo could still hear it plainly. "The pranks kids pull these days." Aloud he asked, in a rather condescending tone, "And where were you headed dressed like that, mister Hob-bob?"

Frodo stiffened. "Hob _bit_ ," he corrected crossly. "And I don't intend to go anywhere save back to the tower or to the sixth circle."

"And where are they?"

The hobbit stared at the man incredulously. When he finally found his voice again he said, "Perhaps, sir, you could escort me to the nearest guard post? I'm certain that I can find my way back from there."

"You mean the police station?" the man demanded flatly.

"Yes, if that is what you call it," the hobbit returned impatiently.

"If?!" The man barked. "Look, kid, this joke is..it's really in poor taste. Now, I don't mind you playing Halloween pranks, but don't tell people that you're lost when you aren't. It's not smart. Ever heard of the boy who cried wolf?"

"What makes you think that this is a joke?" Frodo demanded. "I am lost, and no, I have never heard of the boy who cried wolf." He slowed himself, trying to rid his voice of the imperious tone that he wished to take. Drawing a breath he explained, "You do not seem to understand, sir. I am not a child, nor am I playing a prank. I am one of the King's Companions, and I need to return either to the ninth guard tower of the fifth circle, or else my current home within the sixth circle."

"The king?!" the man seemed startled.

Frodo nodded, relieved that the man finally seemed to understand. "Yes, and I suppose that the citadel would do as well as anywhere else, but Sam will be worrying and I've left him in the fifth circle. Unless this is a dream," he added thoughtfully, gazing around at the unfamiliar sights again. How had he come here?

"Right, right," his companion muttered. "Look, do you mind if I ask you something private?"

The hobbit stiffened. "It would depend upon the question," he returned formally.

The man leaned forward again and lowered his voice. "Have you been taking any drugs lately?"

Frodo paused. That wasn't quite the question that he had been expecting. "Any what?" he finally asked.

"Drugs!" the man repeated, again annoyed. "You know, acid, smoke, needles; have you been using in any way? Now, I'm not going to arrest you if you have," he added in a lower tone. "I just want to see if that's part of what's going on."

Understanding hardly any of the man's sentence Frodo latched onto the last part. "Only guardsmen can arrest people," he said.

The man closed his eyes for a moment in exasperation. "You're right, they can." He straightened back up and reached inside his jacket. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. London Metropolitan Police." He frowned and shifted the bag to his other arm and searched the other side of his coat. "But, I'm with homicide," the man continued, "and if you've been doing anything I'm not going to rat you out. This time anyway," he added in an undertone which Frodo was certain he wasn't meant to hear. The man then began to search the pockets of his breeches, muttering imprecations against some type of lock under his breath. Frodo watched warily.

"You are a guardsman," he cautiously confirmed.

The man glanced down at him. "I'm with the police, yeah." Then he rooted through another pocket. Finally he looked at the hobbit with an annoyed smile. "Well, it looks like I've forgotten my badge, but it's my day off," he shrugged.

Frodo flushed again. "I apologise for troubling you," he murmured.

"Don't worry about it," the man waved his words away. "Now," he turned his full attention on the hobbit, becoming serious. "Have you been getting high?"

"High?" Frodo echoed in bewilderment. "What has that to do with anything?"

"Could be a lot," the man returned. "Have you?"

"Well, yes," the hobbit agreed uncertainly. "The guard tower is over a hundred feet tall, and we were on the balcony, so—"

"No. No—" The man held out his free hand to stop him. He seemed exasperated. "I mean - what I mean..." He glowered down at the hobbit. "Right," he finally said. "You do know what drugs are, right?" His tone was condescending again.

"I cannot say that I have ever heard the word before, sir," Frodo returned coolly. "But I am a stranger in these lands and there are several words with which I am unfamiliar."

"Okay." The man assessed him again for a few moments. "Have you ever stuck a needle full of liquid into yourself, or snorted powder up your nose, or taken medicine when you weren't sick?"

Frodo's expression swiftly went from dignified to confused. "Why would anyone in his right mind take medicine when he wasn't sick?" he retorted. "No, sir. I certainly have not."

"Needles?" the man countered swiftly.

He levelled a stern look at the man. "The only time that I ever use a needle is when I am mending something," he returned, "and as for the powder, yes, of course I have, if the flour explodes everywhere while I'm baking, or dirt gets in my nose whilst I'm gardening, or something of that nature."

"Do you smoke?"

"Not since Afteryule. That is, December," he returned frostily. The subject was a rather sore point with him, Aragorn having declared that his lungs were still too weak for his beloved pipe.

"So, almost a year," the man muttered. "What about your friends? Do any of them take drugs that you know of?"

"Certainly not," he returned indignantly.

"Hm." The guardsman eyed him again, looking both puzzled and sceptical.

Frodo felt his stomach rumble. "If you could tell me how to return to the fifth circle, or perhaps guide me to the nearest guard post I will leave you to enjoy the rest of your day off," he offered. _And perhaps I will find someone who makes more sense._

The guardsman ignored this suggestion. "Have you had anything to drink recently?"

"Water and fruit juices, mainly," Frodo sighed. His stomach hadn't allowed for much else. Even the small beer at the inn yesterday had been a little too much.

"So you should be clean," the man mused.

"Certainly," Frodo answered indignantly. "All but my feet, for I have been tramping about the circles all morning."

The guardsman looked at him with bemusement and then said slowly, "Right..." He straightened back up. "I tell you what. Why don't you come with me. We'll go to the Met, and they can run a detox, see if there's anything in you that shouldn't be. Maybe we'll be able to find your fifth circle from there." He looked at Frodo expectantly. "All right?"

"All right," Frodo agreed hesitantly. "Where are we going, though?"

"Scotland Yard," the man answered.

-0-0-0-

The guardsman moved briskly through the crowd, causing Frodo to trot in order to keep up with him and reminding the hobbit of long-legged Strider and the tramp through the Midgewater Marshes. The thought irritated him slightly, but most of his mind was still too occupied to become really annoyed. How had he arrived? He remembered sitting down on the bench and thinking about luncheon, but then he'd gotten up. That was all. No walking, no riding. Perhaps he had fallen asleep and this was all a dream? But if that was so, then this dream was unlike any that he had ever had. Then again, if this wasn't a dream then what was it?

He glanced up at someone who brushed past him, actually walking faster than the guardsman, and then grew hot with embarrassment. It _appeared_ to be a young lady; at least, she had the, well, the _body_ of a young woman, a fact that was easily revealed from the tight clothing which she wore, but her hair had been shaved from her head save for a single shock at the top, and that was an unnaturally vivid shade of blue. He quickly looked away. Surely _that_ couldn't be a dream. Why would he dream about, well, young women with blue hair and—

He stopped his thoughts before he could get any further and focused on the man before him. His companion didn't appear to be concerned. Instead, _he_ was nodding at a young woman clad in a tunic which only came halfway down her thighs and skin-tight leggings. The girl took no notice of the attentions of the man however, and continued to hawk her wares; which appeared to consist of more tunics like hers. Frodo looked away, feeling as if he must be red up to his ears, but another stood to his right. In fact, now that he'd begun to notice he saw scantily or inappropriately clothed women, and some men also everywhere. Shamefaced, he bit his lip and fixed his gaze on the back of the man's rapidly-moving black coat, willing it to remain there. It was extremely rare that he hoped to be taken for a child, but right now in the midst of this...seeming brothel certainly was one of those times.

-0-0-0-

Lestrade could no longer hear his strange companion and glanced behind him. The little chap was a good five metres back, looking white as a sheet and breathing hard. Lestrade grimaced and waited until he caught up. When he finally had the blue eyes looked at him accusingly.

"Where, exactly, are we?" he demanded, struggling not to gasp for air.

Lestrade groaned inwardly. Not this again. "Camden Market."

"And _what_ precisely do they sell here?" The boy —he couldn't possibly be a man, no matter what he claimed, he was acting too stupid for that— seemed to be indicating something particular.

Lestrade shrugged. "Almost anything you like," he answered. "Why?"

A pink colour crept back into the boy's cheeks. "No reason," he said vaguely. Then his gaze narrowed. "Would you mind amending your pace, sir?" he added sharply. "It's difficult to keep up with you in this crush of people."

Well, one thing was certain. The kid had the most precise vocabulary he'd ever heard from someone so...young? Innocent? Lestrade wasn't sure _what_ to call him. "Ah. Yeah, I can do that."

"Thank you."

"Do you need to rest a minute?" the policeman offered.

The creature sighed but returned firmly, "No. As long as you slow down I'll be fine."

"Right," Lestrade muttered.

The pair set off again, this time at a much slower pace. The —what had he called himself?— the boy appeared to be doing much better, and was breathing easier. Lestrade nodded to himself in approval.

"Why are you nodding?"

The man grimaced. _Caught._ "Just glad to see you're walking better," he shrugged.

The boy eyed him sharply. "As I said, you amended your pace," he returned pointedly. Then his face softened. "For which I do thank you," he added quietly.

Lestrade glanced down at him. "You're welcome."

They continued on for a few metres before Lestrade suddenly realised...

"Have you got a phone?" The little creature looked at him in puzzlement. "A box that you use to talk to people far away," Lestrade explained. _I can't believe I'm doing this_.

The boy shook his head. "Aragorn has something a bit like that," he said slowly. "His is a ball, though."

"Good enough," Lestrade said, feeling relieved that there was someone he might be able to talk to. "Do you know his number?"

"His number?" the boy —he had called himself a hob-something, hadn't he? Or a peri?— frowned.

"So I can call him and tell him where you are."

"Oh." The hob...hob...the boy looked apologetic. "I don't believe that it works that way."

Of course it didn't. "How does it work then?"

"The king will look into it and command it to show him what he wants to see," the boy answered. "I fear that I don't know anything more about it than that though. It's not - something that we are comfortable discussing."

He was getting a worse headache than any that Sherlock had ever given him. Then a thought struck him, and he looked at the little chap, with his medieval clothes and his strange talk, with new eyes. "This ball..." he hazarded. "It's not a crystal ball, is it?"

"Yes, it is," the boy looked startled. "One of the palantíri. Have you heard of them?"

"Yeah, you could say that." Cults. Great. No, he did _not_ want to mess with this. Not on his day off! Why did Halloween always bring out the nutters?

The kid was still talking. "You are one of very few. They are said to have been destroyed for the most part, although the king has taken back the one from Isengard, and of course there was the one which the late steward Denethor used. But I'm told that none can use that one any longer save for a very strong-willed mind." Then he grew quiet.

Lestrade decided to let that subject die a natural death and the pair made their way silently through the market for a while. Until...

"How far is it to - to - Scotland Yard, I believe you called it?"

"About a half hour," Lestrade answered. "Maybe a little more, depending on traffic."

"Traffic?"

Lestrade glanced at him. "Yeah, we're going through Central London. There's going to be traffic."

"Oh," the boy murmured. "Is that before we leave this market, or after?"

"Once we're in the car."

The boy looked at him curiously, but kept quiet. Thankfully.

Unfortunately silence reigned for about fifteen seconds before... "Which of the circles are we on currently?"

Lestrade gave him a tired look. "We're not on any of your circles."

The boy frowned. "We cannot be outside the city," he returned.

 _What city?_ "We're in Camden."

The boy glanced up at him warily."I am unfamiliar with where that is in relation to Minas Tirith," he admitted. "Perhaps we should simply return to the Citadel."

Lestrade sighed, stopping and turning to look right at the kid. Did he even want to ask? "What citadel?"

The boy started. "Why," he stammered. "The Citadel; on the seventh circle. Where King Elessar lives," he added meaningfully.

"Right," Lestrade's headache was getting worse. "Let's just go to the Met first and we'll sort it all out there." He started walking again.

The boy, however, took a step back, a stubborn look on his face. "Why?" he demanded.

The DI turned back to him, fed up. "Maybe because I don't know where any of this stuff is," he growled. "Never even heard of half of it. But _if_ we're very lucky someone at the Met might have."

The boy stared at him in disbelief. "What do you mean you've not heard of them?" he demanded, his already high voice rising in pitch. A few people glanced at them and then hurried on.

Someone needed to hit this boy with a dose of reality. Right between the eyes. "Look, kid, I'm not part of your gang; I don't know what your circles, or King Elzaar, or the citadel, or any of these things are, but someone at the Met might. That's why we're going there."

Unnaturally blue eyes stared at Lestrade, not as someone would who was coming to terms with reality, but in shocked incredulity, as if he'd just been told that Paris, France had vanished off the face of the earth. "Where am I?" he demanded. Loudly. Now people were stopping.

That was it. How many times was he going to have to answer this question today?! "London!" Lestrade barked, just as loud. "You're in Camden Market, in Camden, in London, in England!"

The boy became silent. Then he asked very softly, uncertainly, "Is that in Gondor?"

Lestrade sighed, his own anger ebbing as reality appeared to be sinking in. "Why don't we just sort this out at the station, all right?" He placed a hand on the small back and began to guide the child away.

The kid took about six steps before throwing himself to the side, away from Lestrade's hand, his breath coming far too quickly. He stared wildly about, turning around as if he was seeing the world around him for the first time, then turned to the small crowd. "You have heard of Gondor, haven't you?" he asked, a tremor in his voice. "Or Arnor? Or Rohan?" The few that had stopped to watch just gave him sympathetic smiles or shook their heads. Reluctantly, he returned his gaze to the policeman. "You _are_ a guardsman, aren't you?" he asked shakily.

This really wasn't the place to be doing this. "Yes."

"But— How—?"

Lestrade sighed and turned to the crowd. "All right, folks, break it up. The situation's under control." It wasn't, not really, but the crowd at least seemed to think so and most of them began to disperse. He placed a hand on the little one's back again and the child looked up at him, fear and misery in his blue eyes.

"You know of them, surely?" he whispered.

"I'm afraid not," Lestrade murmured, infusing all the soothing qualities that he could into his voice. The little one stared at him, his eyes seeming to plead with the man for understanding, recognition, _something_.

"What about..Mordor?" he asked finally, rolling the 'r'. There was a stillness about the way that he said it which seemed to scream _trauma_.

"I'm sorry," the policeman returned as gently as possible. "I don't." The boy continued to stare, his mind clearly whirling. With an apologetic look Lestrade began to shepherd him away again. Numbly, the child let him.

-0-0-0-

Not heard of Minas Tirith or Mordor? How could anyone this side of the Misty Mountains not have heard of either? Even in Bree and the Shire they had heard of Mordor at the very least! And for him to not know of Gondor? Frodo had no desire to contemplate how a Man could be so ignorant of his own land.

 _But what if it's not your land?_ a small but nagging voice seemed to whisper. _He does not have the look of a Man of the North, nor of the South._ Frodo flinched and shook his head. Where would he even be then, if he wasn't at least near Minas Tirith. And yet...

 _You did not walk. All you did was sit down on a bench to wait for Sam._

"Even had I fallen asleep I would have had to slept for a fortnight before I left the realms that know Gondor," the hobbit murmured to himself. The guardsman gave him an odd look for a moment, but then seemed to dismiss his words. "As for Mordor..." He shuddered and drew his cloak closer.

 _How many countries had_ he _made dealings with? Rhun, Harad, Umbar, Angmar,_ Frodo shuddered again as the last name crossed his mind.

The guardsman must have noticed, for he glanced down at the hobbit again. "You cold?"

Frodo gave him a weak smile in return. "Merely a - bit of a chill breeze," he explained. _That blew from within._

They left the market and found themselves walking alongside a street crowded with the strangest sort of animals that the hobbit had ever seen. But wait— He looked more carefully. They were not beasts, for they were made of some sort of metal, and some were very brightly coloured too. Several of them were moving, yet Frodo could see no animals pulling them, and if one looked beyond what appeared to be a thin sheet of glass he could see that there were people inside of them. He waved a hand at the strange objects, catching the guardsman's attention.

"What are these that are passing us?" he asked.

The man looked toward the street, and his face changed to disbelief again. "Cars," he returned flatly.

"Cars," Frodo repeated musingly. _Hadn't he said something about such things earlier?_

The guardsman drew a deep breath, as if trying to steady himself. "If I'd say 'horseless carriages' would you know what that means?" He looked at the hobbit half-expectantly and half-mockingly. Frodo forced himself to remain civil.

"I cannot say that I have ever heard of either," he returned politely.

"Never heard—" the man began, stopping short and turning to glare at Frodo. After a long moment he drew in a deep breath and began to move on again, saying crossly as he did so, "Okay, do you know what a carriage is?"

"Yes, certainly," Frodo nodded.

"Well, _this_ is a sort of carriage that doesn't need horses to move. It goes by itself because it's got a thing called an engine in it that makes it run."

Frodo gazed from the guardsman to the 'cars' thoughtfully. "And one rides in it as he would a carriage?" he confirmed.

"Yeah."

What a fascinating notion! They paused at a crossroads as many cars streamed past them, looking very similar to a family of fish. Frodo eyed them, curiosity burning in his eyes and heart in a way that had not happened since he awoke in Ithilien over a month ago, as if he still did have that Tookish spark. He looked back up as the cars all stopped and the man began herding him across the road. "Do the dwarves make them?"

"Make what?" the man mumbled.

"The cars."

"No, they're made by—" the man stopped abruptly and stared at him. (Thankfully they were already across the road.) After a moment he said, "Why would the _dwarves_ make cars?"

"I've not said that they do," Frodo returned politely. "I was merely asking _if_ they do. They appear to be the sort of thing that dwarves would enjoying making." He glanced up at his companion hesitantly. "They are machines, aren't they?"

"...Yeah," the man answered after a pause.

Frodo nodded and returned his attention to the cars.

"Where did you say you're from again?" the guardsman queried.

Frodo hesitated. He'd been forced to hide his identity for so long that such a question always caused him to pause. After a few seconds delay though he answered, "I hail from the Shire, which is a small land to North and West of.. well, of Minas Tirith," he finished softly. _And if this place is not Minas Tirith..._ The strange buildings seemed to loom over him, and he found himself gazing anxiously around again.

"And you don't have cars or - horseless carriages there?" the man confirmed, sounding a little sceptical.

"No, but then, we hobbits don't care for..machines." Frodo explained distractedly.

"But you do have dwarves."

"Yes. Well," he amended, "not in our _land_. A few clans do, however, still live to North in the Blue Mountains."

"In the mountains," the man echoed.

The hobbit looked at him in surprise. "Where else would they live?" he asked.

The man shrugged. "Can't really think of a place," he returned, and began to move on again.

Frodo eyed his companion suspiciously, noting the tone of the comment and the stance of the man... A white-hot flicker of anger leapt within him. The man was treating him like a child. Him, Frodo Baggins, head of the Baggins family, who'd travelled all the way to Mordor— _On your own, I suppose; without any help or guide. And what after that,_ Ringbearer _? Tell me why_ you _feel the need to berate this man?_

Frodo shrank back down at the memory and the voice. When he spoke again his tone was quiet, humble, even. "Where do they live here, Master Guardsman?"

The man gave him a puzzled look. "I never really thought about it," he returned. "Just regular houses, I guess. But, eh, what sort of dwarves are you talking about?" he added suspiciously.

Frodo shrugged. "Any kind, I suppose; although I must admit that I've never heard of different types of dwarves. There are different elves though," he mused aloud, "I suppose that there could be different dwarves. There are the petty-dwarves—"

"Right, right, so, snow white and the seven." The guardsman was eyeing him again. "Tell me something, you said that you live in "Shire", right? Has this "Shire" got a lot of.. nice young men in white coats?"

"No-o," the hobbit returned slowly. "First of all, it is not 'Shire', it is _the_ Shire. Secondly, we would call them young _hobbits_ , or perhaps tweens, but to answer your question, no, it would be a very foolish thing to wear. Even a grown hobbit would likely get it dirty within ten minutes of stepping outside, how much sooner a reckless tween? Now, we do wear white shirts, but they are generally covered by—"

"Never mind, don't answer that," growled the man. He seemed upset again.

Frodo frowned at him in confusion. "I - just did," he returned.

"Yeah. Yeah, you did, didn't you?" the man sighed. "Fine."

The pair travelled on in silence, carefully watching each other out of the corners of their eyes. Finally the guardsman pulled something out of his jacket pocket, and, well, it _looked_ as if he pushed on it. Just ahead of them one of the 'cars' beeped and began to flash light.

"Get in," the guardsman commanded.

"Get..in?" the hobbit echoed uncertainly.

"Yeah, get in the car," the man returned impatiently. "We'll go to the Yard and see if we can find your king Elzaar."

"El-es-sar," Frodo corrected the guardsman with a scowl. Reluctantly, he followed the man—

"What are you doing?" the man demanded irately.

Frodo was startled. "I'm..following you to the door?"

The man closed his eyes briefly. "That might be a good idea." He opened a door with a mock-flourish.

Warily did the hobbit enter that mysterious machine, flinching as the door slammed to behind him. He sank down upon the cushioned bench and stared at his surroundings in shock. The guardsman entered as well, seating himself on a second bench in front of the hobbit and fumbling with various things.

"Buckle up," he barked.

Frodo looked at him in bewilderment.

The man turned around and gestured to a thick strap attached to the seat. A ridiculously large metal clasp was strung onto it. "Sit down and buckle up," he repeated, although with a little less impatience than before. "This car doesn't move until everyone is wearing a seat belt."

With the guardsman's help Frodo was soon securely belted to the seat - a fact which did nothing to calm his steadily-increasing nervousness. He nearly jumped out of the seat in spite of the belt when the machine suddenly gave a terrific growl, and he hastily looked to the guardsman for assurance.

"Sit back, enjoy the ride," the man said casually. Then as the 'car' began to move backward he added under his breath, "It's going to be a long one."

"Why?" Frodo asked softly.

The man didn't look at him. "Call it a guess."

-0-0-0-

nice young men in white coats - taken from "They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Ha"

-0-0-0-

A/N: Well, I'm on another writing tangent again. This will be a long one, folks. I intend to post a chapter a week until all of my pre-written chapters are posted, and then whenever I have one finished. Readers of my 'Bracegirdles' story will attest that I am a _very_ slow writer, so if you like this story I'd advise you to Alert it because it may be a _very_ long time between updates. However, I do not abandon stories, (yes, this includes 'Bracegirdles' for anyone who found this from that tale) so, yes, I will be finishing it.


	3. 2 - Camden, Gondor, or Where Exactly?

**Chapter 2 - Camden, Gondor, or** _ **Where Exactly?!**_

As he eased into the Camden traffic Lestrade casually adjusted the rearview mirror until he could keep an eye on his passenger, just in case the 'kid' got any funny ideas. He had to stifle an urge to laugh at the almost comical look of alarm on his passenger's face. _And we're barely moving_ , he thought. _What will happen when we reach central London?_

After a full minute of absolute silence from the back seat he glanced in the mirror. His little passenger was stark white and was staring out the window, jaw tightly clenched. One arm was stiffly braced against the seat, as if to hold him in place.

Lestrade grimaced a little. "You all right?"

The question hung in the air for a few moments before the boy answered slowly (and probably untruthfully), "Yes."

Lestrade raised a brow. "First time in a car?"

"Yes." The answer was somewhat stiff, and silence reigned for another full minute before the detective inspector heard the high voice from the back seat again. "How are we moving?" The question was filled with both wonder and alarm.

Lestrade groaned inwardly, thinking hard. Of all the things he could have asked...

"Okay, well... under the bonnet is the engine. I told you about that before, that it's what makes the cars go?"

"Yes, but _how_?" the boy repeated, still sounding like he was in awe.

The police inspector grimaced. Apparently he wasn't one to take the short answer. "Okay... there's the engine first, right? And the engine is turning. All the time. And... there's some fuel that powers the engine and makes it turn. The engine is connected to a crankshaft, which is connected to the axles of the car, and the engine turns the crankshaft, the crankshaft turns the axles, the axles turn the wheels, and we roll down the road." _And please don't ask any more questions about cars_ , he added mentally.

"Oh," was all the boy said.

There was blessed silence for twenty seconds.

"And you are certain that the dwarves do not make them."

And there was the university-level English professor asking children's questions again.

"Yeah. Humans make them..in..automotive shops."

 _Please don't ask_.

"Astonishing," the kid murmured, gazing out the window again. "It is merely that my friend Gimli, he is a dwarf," he explained, "and this is the sort of thing he would likely be very good at making." The boy chuckled a little. "It's well that he is not here, for he would likely ask you a thousand questions about the engine. But I haven't a mind for mechanisms, and do not know what to ask."

"Well, that's all right," Lestrade returned, relieved. "There's nothing wrong with a bit of silence."

The little one nodded, and then his attention was caught by something else. "What is that with the numbers on it?"

So much for that silence. Lestrade glanced over his shoulder. The little bloke was staring right at the radio. _Oh, great_. "It's a— It's a clock."

The kid started. "What?"

"It's a clock," Lestrade repeated, trying to be patient. Then he glanced at his guest. "Do you know what a clock is?"

"Yes, I'm rather familiar with them," the boy answered. "Indeed, I have one which has sat on the mantle shelf for years, but I've never seen one like that before."

"Yeah, this one's digital," the policeman returned.

"Dij-ital?" the kid echoed uncertainly.

Lestrade wanted to hit his head against something hard. "Don't ask," he groaned.

The kid gave him a very sharp glance, but only said, "Very well," and fell silent.

It wasn't long before Lestrade heard shifting and rustling noises. He threw a glance in the mirror. Apparently his passenger must have been growing more comfortable with the vehicle because he'd turned his body toward the window. Then he heard a sharp "Oh!" as the air pressure changed. This was immediately followed by struggling noises against glass.

"What's wrong?" _Not that he really needed to ask_...

"I'm sorry," came the apologetic reply. "The glass just - fell down. I cannot get it back up."

"You've probably just bumped the button. Push it the other way and the window will roll back up."

"Button?" The boy sounded startled.

"On the door," Lestrade prompted. "There's a little toggle button. Just push it the other way..."

"What is a toggle button?" came the very serious reply.

Lestrade glanced at the control panel beside him and considered rolling the window up himself. But this was something which the kid needed to learn. "On the door," he returned. "There's a little switch; you can bend it back and forth. Push it up to roll the window back up."

After half a minute the child announced, "There is nothing resembling a switch anywhere near this door."

 _Patience, patience_.

"And you still haven't answered my question," the boy added thoughtfully. "What is a toggle button?"

The policeman sighed. _Give me strength._ "In this case a toggle button and a switch are the same thing. It's a little piece of plastic attached the door that bends back and forth. It you bend it one way the window rolls down. If you bend it the other way it'll go back up. Can you find it now?"

"Perhaps," the boy answered quietly.

Within a very short span Lestrade heard the window moving and a noise of quiet surprise from the boy. And then finally the cabin pressure changed as the window rolled up all the way. Lestrade quickly locked the controls so that they wouldn't go through that again, but once the window was back up the boy put his hands in his lap, seeming to have learnt his lesson. Lestrade, meanwhile, began searching his brain for something that would keep the kid from asking any more strange questions.

"Would you like a doughnut?"

"A what?" came the startled reply.

That was nearly the limit. The policeman drew a deep breath to calm himself, grabbed a doughnut from the dozen he'd purchased, and shoved it over the back seat. "Try it."

The doughnut was taken. After a stunned silence the boy murmured, "This is a dough ring."

Lestrade glanced toward him. "Yeah."

"A fried dough ring," the boy repeated, sounding incredulous.

"Yeah, it is," Lestrade agreed impatiently.

"..Forgive me," the boy suddenly said hastily. "It's just that I've not seen fried dough rings since I left home."

"Well," Lestrade wasn't sure what to say to that, so he settled on, "enjoy."

The boy gave him a quiet smile of delight. "Thank you. I will."

It was the first smile out of the kid since meeting him, and seeing it was a bit like seeing sunshine suddenly break through the clouds after a heavy rain all day. Lestrade couldn't help but smile back. "No worries."

After that there was silence for a long time, much longer than Lestrade had expected, in fact. He checked the mirror a few times to make sure that the kid was all right and always caught him slowly savouring his precious "dough ring" bit by bit. How long had it been since he'd last got a doughnut to make him act like that? Poor kid.

It wasn't until much later (when the doughnut was about half gone) that the boy commented, "My. You men certainly do seem to enjoy tall buildings."

That was an odd thought. "What do you mean?"

"All of the buildings in Minas Tirith are tall too," the child elaborated. "Although I must admit, the ones in Minas Tirith were built very differently," he added with a level of surprise in his voice. "What are those made of? That building there?" He gestured out the window toward a very modern glassed-in skyscraper.

Lestrade glanced at it. "Steel, concrete, glass,"

"What's shining?"

"That'd be the glass. The windows, you know."

"Those are windows?" the child gasped, staring at the building in awe.

"Yep."

The boy gazed out of the window, observing the 'shining' buildings as they rolled by. "This is astonishing," Lestrade heard him mutter. He shook his head. This was getting ridiculous. Here was a kid claiming to be a..whatever—Alien-humanoid-thing, excellent vocabulary, crisp educated accent, running around Camden in medieval clothes, relishing doughnuts like he'd never expected to see one again, and giving every appearance of not knowing what glass was, sitting in the back of his car. It was like something out of a B film or maybe a Spielberg production, but it was happening to him.

 _I wonder what Sherlock would make of this._

He immediately shook off _that_ thought and then glanced at the little bloke again. "So, what's your name?"

The boy looked at him for a moment as if he was puzzled at the question and then two spots of pink appeared in his pale cheeks. "Oh," he murmured, "Please forgive my poor manners. I was so bewildered by..by Cam..den Market that I didn't realise how shamefully I had neglected them." He sat up very straight and then bent over as far as he could, intoning, "Frodo Baggins, at your service."

This time Lestrade turned his head briefly to give his companion a puzzled look before quickly returning his attention to the road. "At my service?"

"It's a polite introduction where I come from," the child explained.

"Oh, okay." Each to their own. "It's nice to meet you..Frodo."

The boy smiled a little as Lestrade hesitated over the odd name. "And you as well," he returned. "I do thank you for taking the time to help me. I truly did not expect you to."

"It's fine," Lestrade shrugged. "I mean, it's kind of my job anyway; if I didn't stop and help you now I might end up helping with your case later, so I figured I might as well do it now."

The boy looked puzzled at this. "What do you mean, 'helping with my case' later? I don't have a case with me."

Lestrade cringed. He had not—

"Nothing," he hastily returned, searching for a new subject. Finally he said crossly, "Haven't you got a coat? I can't believe that your parents let you go out wearing just that! It doesn't look warm at all."

The boy stiffened. "My cloak is far warmer than you realise," he returned coldly, "and my parents really have no say in the matter since they've been dead for nearly forty years. _I_ told _you_ this earlier."

Lestrade cringed again. That's it. Avert one disaster by causing another. "Sorry."

The boy gave him a knowing look, but inclined his head graciously.

Well, regardless of what age he was he certainly had adult mannerisms down.

Silence descended on the car like a smothering wet towel, and the inspector once again frantically searched his brain for a different subject.

"So, what about this shire place, what's it like?"

"Green," the boy replied promptly, sounding a little wistful. "With rolling hills, and grassy plains, and fields full of crops. Trees..."

"Farm land, then."

"Yes."

"Do you live on a farm?" the man hedged.

"No," the child answered sheepishly. "I live in—" He stopped abruptly, his already pale face going white. After a few seconds he continued, "I own a small house near the river."

And they were back to his persistence that he was an adult. Well... maybe he was?

Lestrade decided to let that one go and they drove on in silence for a few minutes.

"Master Guardsman," the clear voice suddenly piped up again. "I know that you keep insisting that I am in Camden, but _where_ is Camden?"

"Are you kidding?" How many times would he answer this today? "We're not actually even in Camden now. We're just in London."

"London?" the fellow echoed in bewilderment. "When did we leave Camden?!"

"About fifteen minutes ago," Lestrade answered. "Camden's really just a tiny part of London, but you've been in London the entire time. It's just, now you're in Greater London."

The...person was silent for a long moment. "London must be very large then," he finally concluded softly.

"It is."

"Then why don't I know where I am?" he asked, fear edging his voice. "Where is London?"

The policeman groaned. "You really don't know?"

"I don't _understand_ ," the...boy clarified.

Lestrade sighed. He really did not want to keep answering this question all day. "London is in England."

"And that is where?" the boy asked sheepishly.

How full an answer did he want?! "London's in England, which is part of the United Kingdom, comprising England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland. And the United Kingdom is part of the continent of Europe." And then for good measure, "Europe is part of the world. The world is part of the Solar System, the Solar System is part of the galaxy, do I need to keep going?"

"The world?" the boy echoed. "N-No, I-I suppose that would cover it all nicely." For a few moments silence reigned again as this information was digested.

"But I have never heard those names before," his guest finally spoke up again. "Where in Middle-Earth—?" At Lestrade's sigh he hesitated and then shakily corrected himself, "I-I know. You cannot explain it any further, can you?"

"I'd just be repeating what I already said."

"It makes no sense," the boy murmured. "Where is Gondor?" Then with a glance at the man he quickly added, "I know. You've not heard of it before." He stared at the back of Lestrade's head in frustration. "How could a dream be so elaborate?"

Well, here was some new information. Lestrade glanced at him again. "You think you're dreaming?"

"What other explanation is there for half a doze—" he paused abruptly and then corrected himself. "More likely a _hundred_ things which I've seen merely since leaving Camden Market, let alone whilst we were there. Not to mention how I could have travelled between two places so quickly."

They were nearly to Scotland Yard and Lestrade was growing more unsure about his course of action every minute. Yes, the Yard would take the kid off his hands, but would this very confused person _really_ find the help that he needed?

Wonder what Sherlock _would_ make of this.

In the back seat the boy was still talking. "Yet it lacks all of the usual components of my dreams," he murmured.

"And what are they?" Lestrade wondered.

"You know nothing of the Shire, nor of Mordor," the child answered. "That," he added wryly, "is the extent of the components of my dreams."

"Well, for what it's worth we have got a lot of shires here in England," Lestrade offered, "places like Wiltshire, Berkshire, Lancashire, Cheshire; that kind of thing—"

"But what about _the_ Shire?" the boy returned, a sort of desperation in his voice. "What about Hobbiton, and Bywater, and Tuckborough and Sackville, the Woody End and the Three-farthing stone? And," his voice fell softer, "and Buckland just beyond the Shire, bordered by the Brandywine." Suddenly his head came up, a gleam of hope in his eye. "Do you know the Baranduin River?"

"No."

The boy looked away again in frustration.

"Well, I've got some news for you," Lestrade said.

The boy glanced up at him. "What?"

"You're not dreaming. This is.. reality. This is what the real world is like."

"...Isn't that what a dream is supposed to say?" the boy asked wryly.

For a moment Lestrade was caught completely off guard. Then he returned, "Actually, I've never had a conversation in my dream about whether or not I was dreaming." He glanced at the boy in the mirror. "Do you want me to pinch you, and prove that it's real?"

The boy grimaced. "Not yet," he replied. "If it _is_ a dream that will likely lead to some rather unpleasant experiences, I'm sure."

"This isn't a dream," Lestrade insisted. "Look, I'm sorry, but that's the truth." And if there was anything that this kid needed right now it was a dose of the truth.

The boy digested this in silence.

"Am I going mad then?" he asked shakily. "That I see women with blue hair and engines which move by themselves, and buildings made of glass." His voice trailed off. "I must be going mad," he whispered.

Lestrade winced. That was probably the same conclusion that the Yard would make too. Talk to him for ten minutes, get his history, and ship him down to the nut house. Or worse, stick him in a holding cell where he could just 'sleep it off'. It would be a convenient way to get him off of the case load.

 _And Sherlock is probably dying for a case like this. I've never known one yet that he couldn't solve either. Except the bloke in the car boot. If nothing else maybe John could examine him, and then I'd at least know what was going on_ —

A soft but persistent noise from the back seat caught his attention and he glanced in the mirror again. The little chap had wrapped himself up completely within his cape so that the only thing not within the bundle was his head, which was bowed. His eyes were fixed on the floor in front of him, and his breath, while deep, was coming far too fast, as if he was trying to keep himself from panicking. It was barely working.

Somehow, that sight made up the DI's mind and, with a quiet turn down a side street, he skirted his workplace altogether and swung back toward Baker Street.

-0-0-0-

A/N: Thank you Bing Maps for the imagery and timing for this trip, and thank you Chamelaucium for suggesting it in the first place. ;)


	4. 3 The Doctor and the Detective

**Chapter 3 - The Doctor and the Detective**

"I am so sorry," John Watson said solicitously as Sherlock Holmes's latest would-be clients pushed their way out of the flat. "If you want to give me your number I could call you if he changes his mind." Maybe he could talk some sense into his stubborn, stuck-up, impractical—

"Don't bother," one of the men snapped. "Mr Holmes has made it abundantly clear that he doesn't want our business. Good day, Mr Watson."

"Doctor, actually," John muttered, almost reflexively, and then noticed a very familiar policeman standing on the pavement, a wary-looking kid with a wild head of dark curls and a grey cape at his side. The other client was giving the pair a haughty once-over.

"Unless you're bringing news that the crown jewels have been stolen I wouldn't bother," he snarled, and the rejected duo flounced away to summon a cab.

"Greg." John almost sighed with relief. Surely Sherlock would take something if _Lestrade_ offered it.

The inspector turned back to him with a wry smile. "Hello, John," he returned. "Was in the area, thought I'd drop by." He gestured at the two men now entering a cab. "What was that all about?"

"Stolen files." John smiled tightly, and the DI arched a brow sympathetically. "You know Sherlock. Not worth his time." He watched as the cab pulled away and then turned back to his guests. "Come on in?" he offered. "I'll warn you though," he added as the pair stepped inside. "He's in a temper." His tone became sarcastic. "Nothing less than 'an unsolvable triple murder' or another note from Moriarty or something like that is going to do right now."

That brought Lestrade up short. "Moriarty?!"

John glanced away, still uncomfortable with the subject even after nearly seven months. "Yeah," he nodded shortly. "Like I said, he's in a temper."

Lestrade drew a deep breath. "Actually, you're the one we came to see."

John stopped short, looking back to the policeman in surprise. "Oh?"

"Yeah, it's..more your field than his," Lestrade admitted, eyes barely flicking to the boy at his side. The child looked up at him suspiciously.

John eyed the kid's thin face, the pallor, noted the look of pain hidden behind the suspicion in his eyes (and, truth be told, did a double-take at the vivid blueness of them), and nodded. "Doctor?" he confirmed.

"Yeah."

Now the boy eyed _John_ suspiciously as the ex-army doctor quickly assessed his potential patient. He wasn't very big - barely came up to Lestrade's chest - and painfully thin bordering on anorexic. At first glance he had looked young, _maybe_ thirteen, but now that he was looking straight at John the doctor found himself changing his opinion: between twenty and twenty-five looked more accurate, despite the height. (And the cape!) So, just _really_ short, and in a lot of pain. Dark shadows rimmed his eyes and a crease in his forehead indicated that he was used to pain and sleepless nights, not to mention that the thin face had lost any trace of baby fat it had ever known—

"Actually," the young man spoke with a high, clear voice, polite but firm. "We came to you because Master Lestraad indicated that you may know something of Minas Tirith. Is this true?"

"What's that?" John was a little distracted.

The youth tipped his head sideways and gave the man a stern look... _yeah, definitely not a kid._ He was a little too good at that look for a child.

"Minas Tirith," the young man repeated precisely. "It is a city, and from where I am come. Master Lestraad indicated that you may know something of this place." He stared at John for a second as if trying to read his face before adding more quietly, "Do you?"

John mused on the name for a moment before shaking his head. "I don't think so."

"I see." The young man gave Lestrade a dark look as he said this, and the DI gave John a tight smile.

"John," he nodded at his small companion, "this is Frodo Baggins, a kid I met in Camden Market."

John nodded, extending a hand in greeting, but 'Frodo' was giving Lestrade a hard stare.

"A 'kid'?" he echoed irritably.

"A person," Lestrade hastily corrected himself. "And, Frodo, _this_ is Dr John Watson."

The young man nodde— _bowed_ to John. Actually _bowed_. From the waist. As if John were the Queen.

"I am at your service, sir," he murmured.

John gaped a bit at this, absently withdrawing his hand as his gaze flicked from the odd display to the resigned-looking Lestrade just behind it. "Thanks," he finally managed, then quickly turned to Lestrade. "Right. So.. what's the problem?"

"Yeah, well..." the policeman's voice drifted off, then he abruptly turned to the client, who was watching the pair expectantly.

"Look, do you mind if I speak privately with Dr Watson for a minute? You can sit down and catch your breath if you want. I'll only be a few minutes—"

The little bloke was shaking his head slightly. "I caught my breath in the 'car', Master Lestraad," he returned—

 _Master_ Lestrade?!

—"But if you've business to care for, please, go ahead." He gave them both an odd smile and another deep nod —practically another bow— then moved to the the chair Mrs Hudson always had set up to entertain guests, quietly removed his cape to reveal a bluish-green medieval tunic, and carefully perched himself on the edge of said chair. His furry toes barely touched the— furry toes? John stared. How had he missed that? His feet were four sizes too big for his body, at _least_ , and covered with thick curly hair like on his head. What sort of— Lestrade drew John off to the side.

"Hairy feet," John commented by way of an intro.

Lestrade glanced at them and then sighed. "That's not even a start," he groaned.

John raised an inquisitive brow.

"I don't know what's going on in his head, but he needs help," the DI muttered. "I met him in Camden Market about an hour ago. He didn't know where he was or how he got there. Claims he sat down on a bench. He _claims_ that he's not human, he's a hob-something."

"Wait, what?"

"He's very well-spoken, sounds like a bloody English teacher until all of a sudden— He doesn't know what a phone is, or a car, or drugs, or even a bloody switch on a car door. I had to tell him _what_ _**London**_ is!"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah." Lestrade shook his head, then hesitated. John waited, eyeing the strange young man thoughtfully. The young man was looking around the passageway with undisguised interest, but every so often his gaze flicked back to the pair.

"...I was wondering if you could.. look him over for me."

John's gaze whipped back to the policeman. "...You mean like a drug test?" he demanded incredulously.

The DI rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. "Yeah..."

A practised doctor's eye wandered over the young man again. "Or are we talking psychosis?"

"Possible head trauma, even?" Lestrade shrugged. "I don't know. Something that would lead to this."

"Yeah, I could do it," John returned. "If he'd let me."

Lestrade nodded a little at this.

"The Yard could do it too," John added reluctantly.

"Yeah, well... that's..not my division though," Lestrade muttered.

John glanced at the police officer in surprise, catching the undertone. Was Lestrade _worried_ about the little bloke?

"Okay..." he nodded, and then more firmly, "Okay. "I'll talk to him at least. If he lets me, I'll do it."

Lestrade let out a heavy breath, as if he'd been holding it. "Thanks, John."

The doctor nodded, already studying his potential patient and wondering how best to broach the subject.

The young man actually _rose_ at John's approach, and stood silently, waiting.

John quirked a bit of a smile at him, unsure where to start. "Hello," he tried.

"Hello," the young man nodded, almost in a sort of bow.

"So... You said your name is Frodo, right?"

"Yes, Frodo Baggins." Another single nod-bow.

"Okay. Uh..." John looked him up and down, then asked suspiciously. "Did Lestrade tell you I was a doctor?"

"Y-es.. He did mention that." The patient glanced warily up at the DI.

"And you're okay with that?"

The bloke gave him a somewhat stern look. "I am unfamiliar with what that term means," he returned.

John frowned a little. "Which term?"

"Both," the strange fellow answered. "I've never heard of a 'doctor', and although Master Lestraad has used the term 'okai', it appeared to have several meanings."

Both men started at that.

"You.. don't know what a doctor is..." Lestrade mumbled slowly.

"Not by that term, at least," the stranger returned politely. "Perhaps if you were to explain it I would."

"So, no policemen, no doctors," Lestrade sounded tired. "What about a detective? D'you know what those are?"

"Not by that term," the young man repeated patiently.

"Right," John sighed. Then he squared his shoulders, nodding briskly at the very confused young man. "Okay. Do you have a term for the person who takes care of you when you're sick or injured?"

The young man's eyes abruptly hooded with suspicion. "A healer," he returned.

Healer? Now _there_ was an old word. "Alright," John agreed. "I am a - healer, then. Your friend Lestrade is a little worried about you—"

"Yes, well, I am a little worried about him," the fellow retorted sharply.

John frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing," the young man shook his head slightly. "Continue. You are a healer and... You wish to examine me?"

"...Yeah."

"Ah," the young man nodded. "Thank you, I decline. I've already been examined by some of the finest healers in the land and know what they will say. Thank you for the offer," he nod-bowed again as if that dismissed the idea completely.

Almost before John could respond Lestrade snapped back, "Have they examined you today?"

"No," was the cool response.

"Then how do you know it's not something you ate?" the DI demanded.

In answer the little fellow looked at them quietly for a few seconds and then said calmly, "And if it is, what good will an examination from you do?"

John's mouth opened, but the bloke held up a hand in check. "Master Lestraad," he addressed the uncomfortable policeman, "I know that you claim this is not a dream, but this place is.. so unlike anything I have ever experienced that it _cannot_ be anything else."

Lestrade opened his mouth to say something but then shut it again, apparently at a loss.

"And what good will it do for a healer to examine me within a dream? So forgive me for rejecting your offer, but no."

"You.." The concept was so bizarre that John had to clarify it. "You think you're dreaming?"

The little fellow looked up at him. "What other explanation is there?" he countered.

"You're drugged," Lestrade snapped. "You ate something bad, you had a sunstroke.. There are a _lot_ of things that could explain this. So, if you let John look you over he'll make sure that you come out of this all right."

The young man looked from one man to the other. "You are both real?" he challenged.

Both men affirmed that fact.

"Then could you please state your names again? I fear that I keep hearing Doctor John Watson and Detective Inspector Lestraad, and neither of those names sound very Gondorian."

"No, you have the right names," John answered quietly.

"And London?" the strange man pressed. "Am I hearing that correctly as well?"

A thin, worried smile quirked at John's lips briefly, then was gone. "Okay, mate," he said softly, trying to calm the slight hysteria he could almost hear brewing, despite the bloke's apparent control. "Okay, I get it. You're seeing and hearing a lot of strange things today, right? Things that you don't understand."

"...Yes," came the reluctant answer.

"Alright," John continued, trying to convey all of the trustworthiness and steady reassurance of the medical world, despite what he was about to say. "I don't know why so many things are so strange. So, may I examine you? Maybe together we can figure out what's wrong, and then you'll be able to tell your healer" the word felt unfamiliar on his tongue "when you get home. Okay?"

The young man stared hard at him for a few moments. Then he finally demanded bitterly, "How thoroughly?"

John frowned at that. "What do you mean?"

"Will I be forced to remove my clothing?" was the immediate return.

The question made John pause for a moment, concerned. Sexual crime victims were at times known to disassociate themselves from the real world, or to build their own imaginary world to cope with the trauma of their ordeal. Or, he could just be shy of a stranger seeing him without a shirt. The question was, which was it?

"Of - course you don't need to take off your clothes," he answered quietly. "Did someone make you do that?"

The little fellow stared at him for a moment before looking pointedly away, mouth set in a firm line.

Right. That would need some investigation. For now though... "Well, all I want you to do is roll up your sleeves, okay?"

The young man gazed at him with an unfathomable expression for another few moments, and then abruptly pushed the loose sleeves of the shirt back to his elbows, revealing a pair of painfully thin white limbs.

"My arms, gentlemen." The words were crisp, maybe even haughty, but coupled with his concern about the clothes, maybe it was understandable.

"Do you want to go somewhere a little more private to do this?" John offered.

"More private than here?" the young man returned sharply.

"Well, there's Mrs Hudson down the hall."

Down came the sleeves in an instant, the icy demeanour melting into an embarrassed flush in the centre of his pale cheeks. "A lady?" he asked, his voice barely more than a murmur.

Interesting how that changed everything. "Yeah."

"..Someplace more private would be an excellent idea."

-0-0-0-

Bored, bored, _bored!_ Why would anyone ever think that he would be interested in a case where there was no challenge? Stolen files? Please. It was plainly obvious that the one on the left knew where they were. Hardly a challenge worth bothering the consulting detective over.

And now John hadn't returned for the usual scolding over money. As if money was the important thing. It was the _challenge!_ Why couldn't people see that? Everything else was pointless. Brainless. _Use_ less.

John. Where is he? He could be out sulking. But his jacket is still on the hook. John is a military man and a creature of habit, he wouldn't leave without his jacket. Mrs Hudson could have stopped him in the hall.

Sherlock's head fell back listlessly, thumping onto the cushion. _Bored!_

Hm. Voices downstairs. Indistinct. More than one. No female.

Case?

Sherlock straightened up from where he was slouching in the chair, pulling the wrinkles out of his suit and looking attentive.

It wasn't long before he was up from his chair and stalking toward the kitchen, pulling on his lab coat as he moved. If it was a case John would have been back by now, and Sherlock was not going to sit around forever waiting for him to return.

 **o**

It was the creak of the stairs that roused him from his work. John was coming back. Oh, good. Now would come the lecture. Which would it be over, money or the frying pan?

Two creaks. John was bringing his 'friend' up.

Three creaks. Sherlock paused at that, listening intently. He could hear two sets of footsteps now, one John's and the other certainly Lestrade; he knew that speech pattern, the particular pitch and tones of his voice, not to mention the step pattern as the policeman walked and climbed stairs. But the third party—

Clearly there was a third party: the broken step had creaked three times. Voice pattern was indecipherable, footstep completely inaudible, but as the group drew nearer he could hear another breathing pattern: laboured, struggling, trying to be silent about it. Unsuccessful, obviously. Diminished lung capacity, weak heart, inaudible footstep—

No one Sherlock knew personally. Potential client.

In record time the gloves and coat were draped over the dining table and Sherlock sat in his chair as if he hadn't moved.

John entered first and, after a brief glance at Sherlock, headed for the kitchen. Unusual behaviour.

He barely acknowledged Lestrade's greeting as the detective inspector entered the flat and completely ignored John's reaction to the pan, watching as the third party slowly walked through the door.

117 centimetres tall, about four stones, definite adult though: midget. Pale face, dark brown curled hair, right hand pressed against chest, struggling to recover breath: heart condition. Pressed lightly, fingers turned inward, watching Lestrade's back, forcing long, even breaths: trying to hide illness. Ligature marks around wrists, nearly skeletal frame, wary of others, assessing threat levels of each person: captivity; recent; less than six months ago. Medieval costume: Halloween. Silk, linen, heraldic embroidery, _hand_ stitching: wealthy. Bearing: upper-class. Carrying swath of grey fabric over left arm - coat, possibly? NO, too much fabric, wrong period: _cloak_. Hairy fee—

Hairy feet.

"Where is Master Watson?" the newcomer asked.

Seconds passed as Sherlock stared at those feet, his mind racing.

Large unshod feet thickly covered in dark curls; very large, too large for the body. Obviously real though judging by the arch as he took a step, the way the ball led, the toes gripping the floor as his weight came down... What sort of creature had feet like that? A deformity, perhaps? But the hair, practically fur—

"Where is Master Watson?" the newcomer asked.

"In the kitchen," Lestrade answered.

"Kitchen?" the newcomer echoed interestedly, looking around as if searching for that room.

Sherlock nearly leapt out of his chair and was across the living room in two strides staring down those feet (and causing the creature to flinch backward). On closer inspection it was even more clear that they were real. The skin moved too freely and naturally for a costume when the creature took a step back. The hair —Sherlock threw a quick confirming glance at the creature's head, then back to the feet— yes, exactly the same as the head: weight, colour, curl, fineness, texture. Rooted into the skin: definitely natural, regularly washed. Neatly groomed toenails, again, regularly scrubbed, recent cutting: two days ago. A mixed dust had settled into the hair on the feet, indicating walking. Dust chiefly white with an overlay of reddish-grey.

"I beg your pardon, sir, what are you doing?" The creature was addressing him. Higher pitched voice than most men, nervous, cultured accent but not immediately recognisable, unusual syntax, older, indicating King's English, well educated. The right hand was now moving to the creature's side— no, further, disappearing within the edge of the blue tunic, fingers still curled inward...missing ring finger. Interesting. Birth defect or injury? Would need a closer look.

The sound of Lestrade attempting to bother him. He ignored it.

Hands: nails ragged, bitten off short. Toenails cut to a healthy length but the fingernails bitten to the nub? Nervous tic: anxiety? —his eyes darted to the face— yes, definitely anxiety. Nails were scrubbed though. Skin around cuticles: clean, healthy pink, on the left hand at least.

"Sherlock? What are you doing?" John's voice. Exasperated.

"An excellent question," the creature agreed quietly. "Can I help you with something?" Addressing him. Why would _he_ need this creature's help?

The smells of the creature were as distracting as the appearance. Earthy, green, herbs, vegetables, butter: cooked recently. A sharper odour, pungent: urea, dye, ink: artist/artisan. Earthy, dirt, green, plants, unfamiliar ones. Soap, unfamiliar brand. A human smell underneath, but...different. Sweeter? More acrid? Sherlock took a deeper whiff.

"I beg your pardon!" The creature took a step away and Sherlock gave him a look of annoyance, then blinked. The creature had pointed ears too, nearly hidden among the thick curls.

Pointed ears, large hairy feet, small size, _bare_ feet, obvious adult...

"What are you?" the detective demanded.

Lestrade grimaced and from behind him John made a noise which always meant, 'manners', but the mysterious creature blinked up at Sherlock, and then answered, "I am a hobbit." He took another step backward and swept the detective a low, well-practiced bow as he murmured, "Frodo Baggins at your service."

Sherlock blinked. "Why would I need your service?" People didn't offer him _service_!

Still coming out of his bow the 'hobbit' stiffened, his shoulders squaring and backbone tensing. He stood very straight and looked up at the detective with dignity. "Perhaps you wouldn't," he returned coolly. "But perhaps I could offer more than it would seem by my appearance."

"It's his way of introducing himself," Lestrade put in, standing unnecessarily near the pair.

"Hobbit," Sherlock muttered, wrinkling his nose as he processed the odd word. "What is a hobbit?" he probed.

"He's a potential patient of _mine_ ," John hurriedly cut in, putting a slight emphasis on _mine_ as he handed the creature a glass of water, and effectively stepping between Sherlock and his puzzle.

"Thank you, Master Watson," the creature nodded to John as he accepted the glass with both small hands, displaying the maimed finger nicely for Sherlock. Recent injury. "As to what a hobbit is," he smirked a little, turning his attention back to the detective, "I can put it no more plainly than to say that I am one. We are the smallest of the free peoples, both in number and size, rarely reaching four feet in height. Our size and appearance are approximately the same as mine, although some are a little shorter — and most are a good deal stouter." He muttered the last bit, as if admitting it galled him. "We hail from the North and are farmers and gardeners, for the main part, and generally remain quietly in our small land, which is doubtless why you've not heard of us." He looked expectantly up from his recitation at the detective. "Does that answer your question?"

"Do you all have such large feet?" Sherlock immediately countered. He had to know...

The creature looked a little startled at this. "Yes," he nodded. "Some broader than others and some shorter than others, but yes."

John was looking disturbed, but Sherlock was fascinated.

"And what brings you here?" he demanded.

"Why don't we all have a seat before we get into that?" Lestrade suggested, dropping his own weight onto the sofa as he said it. "Maybe even a drink," he added under his breath.

"Good idea," John nodded, sounding relieved, and moved away toward his chair. Sherlock followed suit, indicating that the creature should sit in the client chair which was still out from the idiots with the computer. Warily the creature moved to the chair, hung his grey cloak ( _spot on, good,_ ) over the back of the chair, and carefully seated himself.

"Now," Sherlock began again. "What is your problem?"

"I'm looking for the city of Minas Tirith," the hobbit answered. "Master Lestraad indicated that you may know something of it."

"Minis Tirith," Sherlock echoed, already delving into his mind.

"Yes. I was there but an hour ago, in one of th—"

"An hour?" The word halted the clockwork of Sherlock's brain like a pebble in the gears and he stood, irritable. "Here I thought you actually had something for me," he spat at Lestrade, jerking the hem of his jacket straight and then heading toward the kitchen, adding scornfully, "I told you before, Inspector, I don't do lost children!"

"Now, look, Sherlock," Lestrade started to protest, even as the hobbit indignantly echoed, "Children?"

"Actually, he's not your client this time, he's my patient," John put in.

Sherlock halted immediately, feeling somehow betrayed. Lestrade had chosen _John_ over _him_? "What help would you be?" he demanded.

John raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, apparently more than you," he returned mildly.

Sherlock's eyes darted to Lestrade, who was nodding. "It's true," he agreed. "I thought John would be more help this time."

The hobbit-creature looked startled at this.

"With a mystery like that hanging about him?" Sherlock demanded.

"That you weren't even interested in two seconds ago," John muttered.

"Sir?" the hobbit was interrupting. "Do you _know_ of Minas Tirith?"

"No," Sherlock shot back, immediately returning to Lestrade. "Why were you bringing him to John?"

"Jealous?" John smirked.

"I see," the hobbit sighed, rising and drawing all attention to himself. "Then please forgive me for disturbing all of you, particularly you, Master Lestraad," he nodded to the policeman. "Thank you for the offer of assistance. I'll see myself out." And the creature bowed low to them again.

"Hang on," John countered, clearly startled by the announcement even though the creature had obviously intended to leave from the beginning. "Where will you go?"

"With any luck, back home," the hobbit returned, picking up the cloak. "If I left it in two seconds, hopefully I can find it again within two seconds. Or perhaps I'll wake up," he muttered under his breath as he walked toward the door.

"Two seconds?" John frowned. He left his seat and hurried to stop the creature. Sherlock, meanwhile, stood motionless, turning the words over in his mind.

"Wait a minute— hang on, F-rodo." John stumbled over the strange name. "What do you mean, you left it in two seconds?"

The creature had reached the hallway, but he halted again and answered, "It is as I said. I was sitting on a bench in Minas Tirith, but when I stood up, I was in Camden Market. At least, that is where Master Lestraad tells me I was."

Sherlock unconsciously straightened, placing his hands together in his customary 'prayer' position as he processed the creature's words. "Say that again," he ordered.

The creature glanced up at Sherlock, surprise obvious in his overly-expressive face, then quietly repeated, "I sat down on a bench in Minas Tirith, and when I stood up I was in Camden Market."

Sherlock ran through the words several times in his head, then indicated the chair again.

"Explain."

With a sigh the hobbit seated himself again and then in an annoyingly reluctant tone began: "I am but recently come to Minas Tirith, and a friend of mine and I decided to explore the city today. We'd visited several places already and were currently—" he stopped abruptly, looking pained. "We were touring one of the guard towers," he continued, "and had just made our way to the topmost...courtyard."

Unsure of the word. Strange diction. _Topmost_ , _but recently come, it is as I said_ , more than the King's English. Who would say that these days?

"My friend began speaking with the guardsman about something - rather private, and I moved aside to..allow them that privacy."

The creature was talking too slow.

"I found an alcove with a bench in it and sat down, being tired from our walk, and..." The hobbit's voice drifted off and Sherlock glanced down at him in irritation. The creature was staring, unseeing, across the flat. "All that I did was sit down on a bench," he murmured, more to himself than the detective, "thought about luncheon for a few minutes, and then stood up - in Camden Market." The hobbit shook his head and then glanced up at Sherlock, seeming to remember the man. "I-I was bewildered and called out for Sam — my friend from the tower. This gentleman answered instead," he indicated the detective inspector, "and offered to assist me. At first he intended to take me to a place called - scot-land yard, I believe he called it, but we ended up - here."

The room was silence for a few seconds.

"I'll take the case."

-0-0-0-

A/N: I actually started this story during the Great Hiatus, long before I knew that Martin Freeman would be playing Bilbo Baggins. So, Bilbo and John share very little resemblance in this tale, although Martin's Bilbo has commandeered all of my other Bilbo stories. Sorry about that to anyone who wanted to see a Bilbo-John look-alike story.


	5. 4 The Bizarre Client

**Chapter 4 - The Bizarre Client**

["I'll take the case."]

John's head spun from the stranger to his flatmate. "What's that?"

Lestrade looked borderline relieved. "You will?"

Sherlock turned his sharp gaze on the DI. "You knew I would the minute he opened his mouth."

"Actually, you told me once you don't do 'lost and found', so I wasn't exactly holding my breath," Lestrade muttered, half to himself.

The young man was giving them a puzzled frown. "You'll - help me?" he hazarded.

"Do you ever wear shoes?" Sherlock demanded, ignoring his confusion.

"Shoes?" the client echoed, sounding surprised. "No. No, we hobbits tend to avoid them at all costs."

The detective was nodding at 'no' and by the time the client reached 'avoid them' he had left the room.

The young man stared after him. "Shall I follow you?" he called.

No answer. He twisted around to look at Lestrade, worry now flickering in the blue eyes as well. "Should I?"

"No," John answered instead, with a fleeting tight smile at his flatmate's lack of manners. "If he's really going to take your case he'll be back."

Instead of looking reassured the client's confusion only seemed to deepen. "What do you mean 'take my case'?" he asked. "I don't have a case with me; surely you can see this."

John felt one of his eyebrows quirk at the odd comment, but was distracted by a somewhat discouraging-sounding groan from Lestrade. The DI was giving the young man a tired look.

"It's a - kind of a saying around here," Lestrade tried to explain. "'Case' is another word for mystery—it _does_ mean a suitcase or carrying case of some sort. Is that what you're thinking of?"

"Yes," the client nodded.

"Okay. Well, _here_ it also means a mystery, or a - a puzzle. When Sherlock says he'll take your case he means that he's going to look into your _mystery_ and try to help you."

"Ah," the little one nodded, appearing to think the words over. "Then earlier when you said that if you didn't help me now you would probably help with my case later—"

"I meant that, yeah, as the police I'd probably be looking into the mystery _more officially_ later, so I may as well help you now," Lestrade hastily cut in.

John blinked. Lestrade was homicide, _murder_ , and he'd told this kid that he might be working on his case? "So," he hastily changed the subject. "I have to ask you, as a potential client." The little bloke turned and gave him a disapproving look for the interruption, but John pressed on, lowering his voice. "Do you _want_ Sherlock's help? Because he can be—" _a show-off know-it-all? an arrogant git? an absolute arse?_ "—difficult to work with."

Lestrade snorted at that understatement.

"Y-es," The little bloke nodded slowly. "Master Lestraad did mention that."

When no more was forthcoming John raised an eyebrow and prompted, "And?"

"I don't understand how he can simply—look at a person and - see all of their secrets," the client returned quietly, _looking a little nervous_ , John noted.

Out of the corner of his eye John saw his flatmate returning, _no doubt listening to every bloody word_.

"Why don't you ask him; I'm sure he'd love to explain it to you in detail," Lestrade suggested a little bitterly.

"He observes clues on a person," John jumped in, (not wishing to scare this potential client off too quickly) "things in their mannerisms, their dress, their body, even how they speak— and uses them to make deductions about that person's life.

The client rubbed at his forehead a little as if he had a headache. "What do you mean by clews?" he sighed.

Lestrade sighed also. "Have you got any ideas?" he asked tiredly.

"Back home a clew is a ball of thread," the young man retorted sharply.

John grimaced. "Okay...well, _here_ it's a..a hint to the - puzzle. He observes little hints on a person and uses those _clues_ to tell him about their life."

The little one frowned hard at this. "...As if the clews were weaving together a tapestry which makes the answer?" he finally ventured.

"Yes! Yes, exactly!" Lestrade exclaimed, seeming a little more excited at the word picture than John would have expected.

Sherlock, meanwhile, returned to the living room and plonked his lean frame down on the floor before the young man. "Give me your foot."

The client's head whipped toward him in alarm. "Why?"

"If you've been _walking_ everywhere there's dust all over your foot, giving me a sample of where you've been." As the client pondered this rapid explanation Sherlock impatiently held out a demanding hand.

"Very well." The young man nervously held out his left foot. "Just don't cut it, please," he added more quietly as Sherlock seized it and began combing through the thick hair, collecting any particles that fell out (and an occasional hair or two) in a small plastic bag.

The room was silent for a moment or two as Sherlock worked.

"You call yourself a de _tec_ tive, correct?" the client asked curiously.

" _Consulting_ detective, yes," Sherlock returned.

"..May I ask what that means?"

"It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me and I solve their cases for them."

"We're not always out of our depth," Lestrade protested.

"The amount of cases I get from you says otherwise," Sherlock scoffed.

"Yeah, well, maybe I don't want a bored _you_ on my hands," the DI muttered rebelliously.

"Is that all a consulting detective does?" the client wondered. "Solve puzzles?"

" _Difficult_ puzzles," Sherlock corrected. "Puzzles no one else can understand. Don't bother me with anything mun _dane_."

"I see," the client hesitated. After a few seconds he asked quietly, "Is my trouble difficult enough for you?"

"For now," Sherlock grinned, and began swabbing the bottom of the client's foot.

"So," John mused, looking over the notes he'd made. "What is this Minis Tirith like, that you don't know what a doctor or a detective are?"

"Or a policeman," Lestrade added from the sofa.

The client shrugged a little. "It's a city of Men," he answered a little distractedly, apparently unwilling to take his eyes off of Sherlock's actions. "Seven tiers of white stone set one on top of another like a birthday cake, with a great stone cliff sheering from the citadel at the top all the way down to the lowest circles, and the banners of the king fly a thousand feet above the plain."

John raised an eyebrow. "That's some flagpole," he commented dryly. Lestrade snorted.

"It is," the young man agreed soberly. "But it must be if your city is set in a mountain range."

"Okay," John nodded. "But this.. city doesn't have any doctors in it?"

"No, but we do have healers, as I said, and guardsmen," the little bloke added with a glance and a nod at Lestrade.

"But who solves the crimes?" John asked.

The client was silent for a moment. "I'm not certain," he hesitated, finally looking toward John. "At the moment, any who have grievances bring them to the king's court, and he will listen to their problems and find justice for them."

"If the land you were exploring was so harsh why didn't you wear shoes?" Sherlock demanded abruptly, moving to the other foot.

"We didn't have—" The client's head snapped from John back to the detective. "What?" he gasped.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, holding up the new foot. "Razor-sharp rocks," he snapped. "Cutting through your feet, less than two months ago. Arid landscape, long exposure. Did you feel them?"

As so often happened, the client froze, gaping at Sherlock. "How did you—"

"Well, obviously they're from rocks," Sherlock scoffed. "A knife would leave a much thinner line, glass wouldn't be so blunt. No, these feet were deliberately dragged through an entire landscape of rock sharp enough to cut even your hard feet. Now, did you feel them?"

"...At times," the client finally whispered, his face chalk-white.

"Interesting. Would you feel a thorn?"

"Possibly."

"I'd - feel a thorn," John frowned.

"His foot is different: hard, leathery, _made_ for walking without shoes, though clearly not suited for volcanic rock."

"Really?" John looked at the hair-covered feet curiously.

"Y-es." The client sounded unsure.

"You should feel this, John," Sherlock commanded. "As a doctor you'd find it fascinating."

John thought that through for a moment. "Do you mind?" he asked, curiosity overcoming the idea of touching some strange bloke's foot.

A bit of a smile began to play across their client's face. "No, go ahead," he replied, "Master Lestraad, you are welcome to also if you are in need of convincing."

"Convincing of what?" Lestrade demanded.

"That I am not a man," the client answered as John carefully took hold of the large foot— and nearly dropped it in shock. No matter who is telling you or how many times they tell you that a foot is hard and leathery, you never quite expect it to feel like you've just found a shoe that's actually alive! He gripped it more firmly, trying to steady himself, to reassure himself that it was actually real, that this whole case was really happening. The firm 'leather' yielded against his touch the way that a normal foot with normal, fleshy muscles would, but it was astoundingly hard, like the sole of a shoe!

"Has it always been like this?" he asked, trying to seem detached. Interested, but not shocked. He was a doctor, after all; it wasn't as if he should react to any sort of medical condition— even one as bizarre as this bloody foot!

"Yes," the client laughed a little. "We hobbits are born with —what you men call— large, hairy feet. Although, forgive me if I note that to us they are perfectly normal, and it is the other peoples who have small, strange feet," he added as Lestrade came over.

"Other peoples?" the doctor asked distractedly as his eye caught a lattice-work of pink scars around the edge of the foot and several horrid-looking gashes through the sole.

"The Elves, men, and dwarves," was the matter-of-fact answer.

"Elves!" John started.

Sherlock abruptly dropped the other foot and stood up.

"I don't work for free," he announced.

The would-be client looked up at him in alarm. "I - have only a few coins," he faltered.

"No, no, no, not _money_ ," Sherlock returned cheerfully. "I'd like to study you."

The client started. "Study me?" he echoed.

"You stay here with John and myself, I solve your case, and in return I am allowed to study you for a week."

 _So_ that's _what he saw in that bizarre story_ , John groaned inwardly, moving back to his chair (and away from his insane flatmate).

"I - cannot stay here a week," the stranger returned. "My family will worry themselves sick long before then. I could give you.. possibly two days?" he offered.

"A week," Sherlock countered firmly. "Two days isn't enough time to study anything worthwhile."

"Granted," the creature sighed. "And I am flattered that you think my people a worthwhile study, but within even two days my family will be frantic. Were I to vanish for a full week I fear to think what state the city would be in when I returned. I can only grant you two days."

"Ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed. "Even four days is barely enough time to learn anything about you."

"Actually someone once told me that one could learn everything that there is to know about hobbits within a month," the would-be client asserted. "So four days would be enough time to learn the important things, and _two_ will give you an excellent overall picture from which you may make your own studies."

Sherlock was shaking his head. "Four days, _at least_ ," he returned firmly. "I want to run a few experiments."

Their potential client's cheeks lost a little colour at that. "And how far are they?" he asked carefully.

All three men stared at him for a moment. Then Sherlock spat, " _Experiment_!"

The stranger sighed. "Master Sherlock, if we are to continue at all then you _must_ understand that there are several words which all of you gentlemen seem to take for granted that everyone knows, yet I do not. Would you please explain what an experiment is and how far one must run during one?"

In answer the detective glowered at his potential client for a few seconds, then silently stalked to the bookshelf and began perusing it. A puzzled frown crossed the client's face, and —with a grimace at his flatmate's lack of manners— John hurried to intervene.

"You don't run for an experiment—at least, not usually," he explained. "When you run an experiment it means you ru— you _perform_ tests on something so that you can learn more about that thing."

"What sort of—"

A fluttering whizz cut through the air and the client's hands shot up and to the left, coming back down with a small dictionary. Three heads whipped towards Sherlock as he rattled, "E-X-P-E-R-I-M-E-N-T! Look it up!" like machine gun fire at the client.

The client responded with the irritated sort of look an adult would give to a rude teenager, but he did open the book and begin flipping through the pages. He paused, reading an entry, and looked back up at the detective with an air of wonder. Then he silently perused some more pages, looking more astonished with each entry.

"Five days," Sherlock scowled.

"...Three," the client countered, pausing with a finger in the book. "Three and a half at most. Merry will still have my ears for that much."

Sherlock frowned over that offer for a moment, then nodded. "Three and a half," he agreed briskly. "Now," he threw himself into his chair. "Even though you don't trust anyone in this room, you consider your problem desperate enough to work not only with Lestrade, but also me. So, start at the beginning of your day and tell me everything that happened. Don't leave out a single detail."

The client blanched. "How did you—" he began faintly.

"You've been assessing the threat levels of everyone in this room since you walked in," Sherlock scoffed. "Understandable given your recent captivity, but unnecessary in this place; although I am impressed that you correctly assessed John's level. Most people underestimate him."

John's head whipped toward their small client in surprise.

"He is a soldier, isn't he?" the client asked.

"Yes."

"How did you know that?" John wondered.

"You have the look," the other said softly.

 _Military haircut, psychosomatic limp, military stance and posture_... _Great. Is he another Sherlock?_

"What look?" Sherlock demanded, suddenly very interested.

A door abruptly slammed shut within the client's face. "That is his affair and not my place to say," he returned firmly. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

Now John was curious. "No, go on, you can tell," he nodded. The client glanced up at him, looking concerned.

"You're not a soldier," Sherlock mused aloud. "Never been in the military, more the creative type. Your illness stems from the captivity though— no, the landscape!" He straightened, gaze darting all over the client. "No access to shoes: _nothing_ to cover the feet, not even a blanket to wrap around them! You didn't have access to anything then: clothing, shelter, _food_. Wandering through hostile territory—

"Master Sherlock!" the client exclaimed, two vivid red spots in his cheeks colouring his otherwise bloodless face. "This has nothing to do with my—"

"It has everything to do with it," Sherlock retorted. "Your captivity alone would be enough to induce hallucinations,"

"My captivity?" The whisper was barely audible.

"but for a landscape to be that filled with sharp rocks it couldn't rain there often, so desert, inhospitable. They could be metamorphic —I had a case, Lestrade, don't scoff—"

"I wasn't—"

"but for an entire landscape of metamorphic rock to remain that sharp is more than unlikely. _Volcanic_ rock, on the other hand, is known for maintaining it's rough textures. Now, as we all know, rocks which regularly are rained on will eventually lose their sharp edges, but a volcanic mountain within a desert—"

"Master Sherlock!" the little bloke was almost trembling with rage. ( _Or was that fear?_ ) "That may well be, but such information does not tell us how I sat down on a _bench_ in _Minas Tirith_ and stood up not _three_ minutes later in _Camden Market_! Could you please keep your commentary solely to that subject and leave my past out of this. You wish to know about my day? For it began around seven o'clock, that is, two hours past the sunrise with the singing of birds out my window..."

To John's surprise, Sherlock actually allowed the change of subject and sat there, hands pressed together under his chin, listening intently as their client listed out the doings of his day in what seemed to be a fairly precise order. Every so often some detail or other wasn't specific enough, and then Sherlock would ply the little bloke with questions until he was satisfied. To his credit, the client didn't seem fazed by the scrutiny and easily gave information; pausing every so often to sort his thoughts, of course, but nothing close to the stumbling, almost painful attempts to understand his surroundings from earlier. He had an odd way with grammar though; almost as if he usually spoke nothing but the King's English, or perhaps English wasn't even his first language. He used a lot of old terminology too. John, who was taking his customary notes for the blog, made sure to jot that down. Who knew? Sherlock looked over his notes every once in a while (usually to make certain that he was being portrayed in a flattering manner); maybe a comment about the bloke's English would be a breaking point in the case.

Eventually the young man's account trailed its way to his arrival at Baker St. and he fell silent, waiting for Sherlock Holmes to work his magic. The detective said nothing, grey eyes flicking rapidly as he processed patterns and sequences, outlined maps, and otherwise analysed data. Or at least so John assumed. But, truth be told, who could really guess what thoughts were happening behind that long, sharp face. John looked over his notes again.

"So.. Frodo, did you say your name was?"

Those piercing eyes darted to him. Then the client inclined his head in yet another bow of acknowledgement. "Yes, Frodo Baggins."

This bloke was far too fond of bowing! "Okay, you said that when you stood up the change was immediate. But, did you notice any sort of change in your vision like blurring, or some double-vision; maybe some colours that didn't belong?" Any one of those would have indicated possible hallucination.

But the client was shaking his head. "No," he returned firmly. "It was as if Camden Market had always been there before my eyes, yet I was unable to see it until that moment." He folded his arms protectively over his chest, and for an instant it was like a mask had fallen off of his face. He looked worried, and frightened, and incredibly old. Then it was gone, pulled back behind the air of politeness and dignity he wore. His arms remained crossed though. "I don't understand how this could have happened," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Save only by falling asleep." His eyes darted toward Lestrade briefly, then flicked away to the darkened hearth. "Or else..."

The words were barely breathed, and were accompanied by a brief glimmer of raw terror in his eyes, but then smoothed away again.

"Magic is nothing more than an excuse which allows simple-minded naïvety and ignorance to overrule logic and reason," Sherlock snapped, his posture barely acknowledging the young man.

 _Magic? Who said anything about magic?_

For an instant the client startled them all by sitting bolt upright, hands balled into fists at his sides, a flame of anger igniting behind his eyes. His mouth angrily parted, and then he froze, staring at Sherlock without a word. A few seconds passed and then he slumped (well, as much as a person keeping his back straight _could_ slump) and lowered his head. "I understand your reasoning," he sighed.

John raised a brow. _What sort of answer was that?_ "What sort of magic?" he pressed.

"Good," the detective returned condescendingly, and then: "I need to see that place."

"Do you mean Camden Market, or—"

"Yes. Do you think you could you find it again?"

The client considered for a moment whilst Sherlock waited impatiently.

"I believe that I could," the young man said slowly. "Provided that someone could guide me as far as the horse ramp. It wasn't far beyond that."

"Good." The detective was instantly on his feet, gathering things together in a rush of speed. "John!"

John sighed. "Right." He surged to his own feet, a little disappointed that they weren't going to solve an adrenhiline-pumping mystery, but relieved that Sherlock wouldn't be bored, at least for a few days. He glanced at Lestrade, who was also straightening, and smiled. "Thanks, Greg." He spoke in an undertone. "I think this should work."

"Any time," Lestrade nodded. "Mind if I come along? We could take my car."

"Couldn't we walk?" the little client piped up.

"No," Lestrade quickly answered, almost before John realised what had been asked. "It'll be short; only ten minutes drive, fifteen at the most."

"That is a simple matter to walk," the bloke returned.

Lestrade put a hand to his forehead, grimacing. "Yeah, well, it's a lot longer if we walk, and right now speed is the important thing. Don't worry," he added in a more reassuring tone. "It won't be bad."

The client looked away, seeming upset.

"Bad?" John frowned.

"Yeah..." Lestrade lowered his voice. "Apparently he gets carsick."

"Oh." John eyed the little bloke, who levelled a long look of his own at the soldier, and then deliberately broke eye-contact and quietly began to put his cape-thing back on.

" _John!_ " Sherlock's imperious bellow echoed up the stairway, announcing his imminent departure.

John rolled his eyes. "Half a minute!" he yelled back. He glanced at the policeman. "You're sure you want to come? You know what he'll be like."

Lestrade snorted. "Yeah. Offer still stands."

John had to smile. "Then we'll take you on it. Thanks." He glanced down at the client, who was pinning his cape shut with a green leaf-shaped pin. "Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Uh, well," Lestrade cut in, "d'you want me to stop by a shoe shop on our way?"

John glanced at him in surprise. "Shoe shop?"

"I don't wear shoes," said a stern voice near the men's waists.

"Yeah," the DI looked like he was trying not to squirm. "To protect his feet from glass, needles—"

"Oh, right, of course." John was a bit surprised that he hadn't realised himself.

"Gentlemen, my feet do not _need_ protection."

The doctor glanced at the persistent little client. "Okay, but would you mind wearing a pair of my shoes? Just for today?"

The young man raised a brow. "Would I mind?" he echoed coolly.

"Well, you don't want to get tetanus in a foreign country, do you?" Lestrade laughed nervously.

The client turned and fixed the policeman with a stern look that appeared to make poor Lestrade even more nervous.

"I am uncertain what 'tetnis' is," he returned.

That was an opening and John quickly took back the floor. "It's a disease that can enter your body through rust and dirt. If you walk around London barefoot there is a high chance that you will step on some glass, or rusty nails or tin can lids, or _something_ and cut yourself open. It's bad and once it gets into your bloodstream there's not much you can do about it. With those cuts already healing on your feet you'll want to make certain to keep them clean of any sort of dirt, and particularly the dirt from Camden Market. So, I'm going to prescribe wearing a pair of socks, and shoes, at least until those cuts are completely healed."

The eyes turned on him. "My healer has already given me leave to walk where I wish, and how I wish."

 _If your 'healer' was here I'd want to see his credentials_. "Look, this is just for your protection while you're walking around the filthy streets of London. Wouldn't your 'healer' want you to protect them?"

The young man's nostrils flared. His shoulders moved backward, pulling him up even straighter. "My healer has seen me walk through an orc-infested mine on these feet. He knows full well what they are capable of handling and what they are not."

John raised a brow, "Yeah, well, clearly they were not," he retorted quietly, and the little bloke flinched, obviously reminded of the scars across his thick soles. John sighed. "You can borrow a pair of my trainers. It's not a problem, and I would feel a lot more comfortable if your feet were covered. Besides," he gave the youth a wry grin, trying for a little humour, "you don't want everyone in London knowing that you're here, do you?"

The aggressive stance slowly dropped as the client gazed at his feet. After a moment he said sheepishly, "They are somewhat conspicuous."

"Yeah. They are," John agreed.

After another moment the client sighed. "Very well, Master Watson. I agree to your terms."

"Great," John quickly nodded, before the bloke changed his mind. He threw a glance at Lestrade. "Greg, could you try and stall Sherlock? We'll be down in a minute."

"I can _try_ ," the policeman snorted, and disappeared down the stairs whilst John ran up to his room and dug out a pair of old but still serviceable trainers.

He came out to find the client seated on the bottom step. As the doctor came closer he realised that the young man was silently staring at his hands, slowly turning them palm up and then back over. He didn't seem to notice John until the doctor sat down beside him. Then he quickly tucked his hands under the cape, scarlet spots flooding the centre of his cheeks.

"Here you go," John said quickly, handing over the shoes and a pair of large socks. "You okay?"

"I'm - fine, yes," the client answered without looking at him as he took the items.

John grimaced. "Look, mate, I'm sorry about that whole thing." The usual apology for Sherlock. "People don't believe me when I tell them that this is the most invasive thing they will ever allow to happen to them."

"Why did he have to say it - aloud?" the client mumbled as he began struggling to put on the socks. "Why couldn't he have kept it to himself, or spoken privately with me later?"

"..Probably because he's Sherlock Holmes and he likes to show off, and he likes an audience," John admitted.

The little client gave him a pained look.

John sat silently for a few moments, watching as the young man worked at putting on the socks, and then the shoes, seeming to be trying to hide his hands from John as he worked. John flinched a little. Once again, it appeared that Sherlock had crossed the wrong boundary. The little bloke's every movement was screaming how ashamed he was of something. And with the connection to his hands...

"Hey, mate, don't think about it."

The client's head whipped up as if he'd been startled.

"What?" he managed.

"Don't think about it," John repeated. "Everything that Sherlock pointed out? He is the only one who could have seen it."

The client returned to the shoes, apparently struggling with the tongue of the left one. "But now you see it," he returned softly. "And Master Lestraad sees it, and—"

"It happens," John protested. "Life goes on, people do things that they're ashamed of... So you went mountain climbing on a volcano. It happens. Actually, it sounds really cool," he added a little enviously.

The client gave a small unhappy laugh. "Actually it was very hot, except at night," he returned sharply. "But I don't understand this word volcano," he added, looking puzzled.

John shrugged. "It's a mountain that likes to blow up every once in a while and throw lava everywhere." He paused. "You don't know what lava is either, do you?" he groaned.

"No..."

 _How to explain a volcano to someone who's never heard of one_... "Okay, it gets really hot beneath this mountain, see?" At the bloke's hesitant nod he continued. "And sometimes it gets so hot that the whole top of the mountain just - blows up."

"Blows - up?" the client frowned.

"Erupts," John hastily corrected himself. At the continued blank look he tried, "Explodes."

Comprehension dawned. "Like a firework?" his companion asked, looking interested.

John grimaced. "Not really, though I have heard that it can look like that sometimes," he returned. "More like... okay. A volcano _looks_ like a mountain, except that where a mountain comes to a point at the top a volcano has a big _hole_ instead. Okay?" He received another hesitant nod. "And when it gets too hot beneath this volcano it will blow up - or _erupt_ \- and send lava, which is melted rock, shooting out of the top and covering all of the landscape. Yeah, you don't want to be anywhere near when that happens because it will burn you to death really fast."

His companion's concentrating frown abruptly melted into a look of shock, his face taking on the colour of wax. "A fiery mountain?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"I - guess?" John frowned.

"At its heart there is a river of fire and heat, hot enough to destroy - anything." The last word was barely even breathed.

"Yeah... Yeah, you could describe it that way," the doctor nodded slowly.

The young man appeared frozen in place, a look of... well, if John were guess he would have said the little creature looked horrified, and really old again, and rather like he was carrying the entire world on his shoulders.

"How could he have known?" he whispered.

The doctor placed a gentle hand over one of the tiny ones still holding the loops of his shoelaces. The young man started and jerked away, and John let him go, not wishing to drive the spiking pulse he had briefly felt higher.

"It's like I said," he shrugged, trying for nonchalance, "he is very clever and very observant. It's hard to keep anything secret around him." He stood up and began making his way down the stairs. Behind him he could hear his companion do the same.

"And anyway," he continued. "You did it once, clearly you won't be doing it again; life goes on. _It happens_. And truth be told," he added. "If I climbed a volcano I'd be _bragging_ about it."

His companion snorted: a small but promising sound, but made no other comment.

Outside they found Lestrade, but no Sherlock. The policeman looked apologetic.

"I think he took a cab before I got down here," he muttered.

John felt the corners of his mouth twitch up into an irritated smile. "Well," he returned tightly. "His wait then, isn't it?"


	6. 5 Searching for Clues

**Chapter 5 - Searching for Clues**

They found Sherlock Holmes in Camden Market, down the Horse Ramp, a few booths to the left, near the canal, just as their client had described. Actually, they found him lounging against a booth which appeared to be selling orange juice, chatting with the proprietor and thumbing through his phone.

As they approached John heard the vendor say, "—strangest thing _I_ saw today would have to be the chequerboard."

"The chequerboard?" Sherlock raised a sceptical brow, not glancing up from his phone.

"Yeah, some bloke walked through here dressed up as a chequerboard. I mean," the vendor drew a box in the air with his hands, "wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle, and all lined up in between he was a perfect square when he was all stretched out. Had two different games in session —one on his front and one on his back. Hands down that was the weirdest costume I've seen yet."

Sherlock didn't look impressed. "What about suspicious activity?"

The vendor's eyes abruptly hooded. "Now, if it's _suspicious_ activity you're looking for you're barking up the wrong tree, _mate_. I'm a fine, upstanding business man, and my booth—"

"No, no." Sherlock seemed irritated. Then his eyes landed on the trio and he jabbed a finger toward them. "Him!" he declared. "Do you remember seeing _him_?"

John noticed that their client straightened a little at this as the vendor, with one more suspicious look at Sherlock, glanced casually over at them. His wary gaze abruptly turned into the sort of smile a person reserves for those small children who cheerfully ask the name of every stranger they come across. "Yeah, I do, actually," he answered. "Can't really forget that costume, can you?"

And with that he leaned across his booth and called, "Hey, mate! Did you find Sam?"

The client jerked and then rushed over, tripping a little in his haste. "Why? Is he here?" he demanded.

"You were looking for him earlier," the man reminded him.

The young man's face fell. "Oh," he murmured. "That was a mistake on my part. I don't believe he came here after all."

The vendor nodded just as Sherlock demanded, "Did you see anything suspicious or unusual regarding him?"

"No," the man mused, "can't say that I did. Didn't even notice him in fact until he started calling for Sam, though I don't know how I missed him. That is a gorgeous costume, mate," he added directly to the client (and miffing Sherlock with his lack of attention). "I have never seen better. Did your mum make it?"

A light flush (which John was already noting as a sign of embarrassment) coloured the client's cheeks a little. "No, a-a friend."

"Ah, well," the man leaned closer. "Give my regards to the seamstress. That is _gorgeous_. Anyone would think that those jewels on the embroidery were real, and the heraldry!" he crowed. "What's it mean?"

Their client's face lost all colour. "Mean?" he faltered, his right hand abruptly moving to the figures on his chest, fingers coiled inward.

"Yeah, the picture on the front on your tunic," the man explained, losing a little of his enthusiasm. "Does it mean something, or did you just pick a pattern out of a book?"

"I - I believe that they just - drew something," the little client stammered, glancing nervously down at the designs in question.

"Oh. A shame that," the man sighed. "But a lovely costume all the same."

"Thank you," the client murmured, still not looking up.

"You didn't see anything regarding him?" Sherlock interrupted.

The vendor sighed, straightening back up to look at Sherlock as levelly as possible. "Look, mate," he snapped, "all I saw was the kid" (the client straightened indignantly) "calling for his friend, and then going off with this bloke." He jabbed a thumb at Lestrade. "That's it."

"Hm," Sherlock mused. "Well, thank you for your time, Mr Walitch. Best of luck with the business." He swung back to the client, his friendly (prying!) smile immediately replaced by an intense, concentrated frown. "Where did it happen?"

The client blinked, thrown briefly by Sherlock's instant change, then answered, "Just over here." And he shuffled over to an area just a few metres away, right near the river. Sherlock's long strides easily kept him inches behind the client, but apparently he anticipated enough of the bloke's moves that he was somehow able to avoid running him over when the young man stopped and began to look around as if checking his bearings.

"I believe this is the spot," he said slowly.

Sherlock's own gaze followed the client's. "Good. Stay back," he commanded curtly as he scanned the ground for clues. John and Lestrade wisely took about two steps back at those words, knowing _very_ well how little Sherlock liked to share a crime scene. The newcomer, on the other hand, remained at Sherlock's side, watching with curiosity as the detective stood motionless, seemingly doing nothing. It took less than eight seconds before— "Shut up."

John grimaced at the familiar words, but their little client jerked as if he'd been slapped, even taking a step backward that looked involuntary as a flash of shock or maybe fear darted across his face. Quickly composing himself he threw a wary look up at the detective again.

Sherlock sighed. "Shut up!" The words were a little louder this time, Sherlock's annoyance with the 'interruption' growing more evident.

Yeah, that was definitely fear. This time it was followed by a confused look at the pair behind him.

John quickly stepped in before the situation became completely out of hand. "Why don't you come stand back here, mate?

The little bloke threw one more cautious look at Sherlock before moving to John's side.

"Why did he do that? I said nothing," he protested quietly.

"It's - one of his quirks," John shrugged. "He claims that he can hear a person thinking."

The client's eyes widened.

"Don't be ridiculous, John; of course I can't _hear_ a person thinking, but their body language, particularly _his_ body language, makes it painfully obvious _what_ he is thinking, and it's very distracting _and_ annoying! Be quiet!"

John raised a brow at the client. _See?_

The client gave him a nervous look and then nodded, his attention locking back on Sherlock.

 **o**

For some minutes they watched the detective as he worked his 'crime scene'; studying it with care, tracing some sort of invisible outline, sometimes kneeling down to take a sample of something. A few times John had to step in quickly to rescue passers-by from the lash of his flatmate's tongue. During the entire time John noticed that their odd client never took his eyes off of Sherlock. Curious, he studied the little bloke. Motionless, watching Sherlock intently, carefully controlled breathing, stance poised for action...

Great.

"Sherlock?"

No answer.

John moved (carefully) to his friend's side. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't even look up from the bricks he was examining. "What do you make of him?"

John blinked. "What's that?"

"What do you make of him?" Sherlock repeated impatiently.

The client looked at John in shock, the perceived threat immediately extending to the soldier. With a wince John grabbed the detective by the back of his coat and dragged him several feet away. (Sherlock yelled.) When he thought that they were far enough he demanded rather angrily, "What?"

"You heard me the first time," Sherlock scowled, irritably straightening his precious coat. "I've been watching you study him; what are your evaluations?"

"No," John gave him a tight smile. "You are not doing this to me again—"

"Don't be so over dramatic—"

"Me? _Me_ be over dramatic?—"

"An outside opinion, what the average man sees—"

"You are—no."

"An invaluable insight—"

"He's standing right there for—"

"I value your observations, John."

John stilled, staring at his flatmate, one hand twitching a little in irritation.

"Really?" he spat.

"Yes." Sherlock Holmes was returning the look, the intensity of his stare trying to burn through John's resolve.

The two remained that way for several seconds.

Finally John shifted, still irritated. "You already know everything I could possibly say."

"Yes."

"Then why bother?"

"An insight into what the average man sees when attempting to analyse another can be of use to me at times."

"Yeah, well, I'm not your average man; I'm a doctor," John returned, his voice lethally soft, "and I'd say he's sick, he's scared— _of you_ , and he needs a psych evaluation." His gaze drifted back over to the little client. "And a doctor," he sighed, a note of worry entering his mind. "He's..malnourished. Someone's been trying to feed him back up, but..not doing very well. I'd say within the last... couple months if that. He still has that hollow look in his eye, and around the cheek. Listening to him breath he's... either been in a house fire or he's a chronic smoker. He sounds awful. Pulmonary or bronchial problems would not surprise me, cardiac problems, possibly poor circulation, sleep deprivation, anaemic, possible eating dis-or-der..." And Sherlock Holmes had just got what he wanted.

He gave his flatmate a dirty look. "Sherlock, if you breathe a word of this to anyone, including him, I will put all four livers _and_ the ears down the disposal."

The detective looked appalled. "A bit much, isn't that?"

John just raised a brow at him. Sherlock's face turned a bit sulky.

"Why?"

"Because it's not your place to tell him." Sherlock opened his mouth but John hurried on. "As a doctor I may, in time, _if he comes to trust me after this_ , tell him about his problems. But you leave that to me. You don't mention to him, you definitely don't announce it to the world—"

"Shouldn't he want to know?"

"Not from you. You're not a doctor."

This time it was Sherlock who looked away in disgust. John's satisfaction, however, was very short-lived.

"What else?"

 _Else?_ John wondered, and then realised..."I can't just—"

"You've already begun; you might as well continue now." Sherlock pressed his hands together under his chin, studying the client again. "And you've made a good beginning," he added in what was meant to be a tone of approval—and would have been in anyone other than the highly observant, blessed-with-superpowerslike Holmes brothers who could never actually be impressed with the pitiful 'deductions' mere humans managed to make. John gave a snort.

The pair remained silent for about ten seconds.

"What else, John? What do you _see_?"

Great! Mr Punchline I-will-have-the-last-word-Holmes wasn't going to let this rest until he got his way! And honestly? John really didn't feel like trying to argue his flatmate down today.

He managed to hold out three more seconds before... "Okay. Okay, fine. He is...unusually short. Which, yes, I know that's _blindly_ obvious," he snarled, "but that's what you do, isn't it? Start with the obvious and work your way down?"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed.

"So he's short. Pointed ears and big hairy feet. And one minute he sounds like he graduated from Oxford, and then he's staring blankly at you asking what a doctor is."

"Yes..."

"So... so, he's well educated, I mean, he picked up on things rather quickly, but it's in limited areas, like older literature."

Sherlock made an irritated noise at that. "Anything else?" Sherlock wasn't fond of old lit.

"Uh, well, it's probably safe to say that he's interested in castles and medieval times and such. He's got a lot of vocabulary from that, plus the costume. He's a... a bit naïve, I'd say. Been living a bit further off the grid than usual, not knowing what a car or a detective are."

"Yes."

"Un-less that's an act," John added. "But...if so it's a rather good one."

Sherlock glanced at his flatmate.

"...His, um, his costume's a bit odd too. I mean, it looks like it's made out of silk, and no one in their right mind would wear silk to a Halloween party where you might get punch or cheese dip or something on it." John paused. "It's kind of the wrong style for Halloween too, because they usually dress...a bit more fit, yeah? To appeal to the ladies."

"Yes."

John appraised the client's garb again. "That is a great costume for a kid," he concluded. "Absolutely fantastic. It's a terrible choice for an adult." After another pause he added thoughtfully, "A piece like that would have to be commissioned, wouldn't it?"

"Yes."

"Which means that he *chose* to dress that way."

"Yes."  
"..Or, someone chose to dress him like that."

"Good. What else?"

 _Else, else_. John gazed at the client. "Well, if it really is silk then either he's rich or his friends are."

"Spot on," Sherlock praised. "What else?"

"Well, he can't walk in shoes."

Sherlock smirked. "No," he agreed. "And?"

"...He's never worn them before?"

"And?"

"Because - he's never needed them before. His feet... - his feet!"

Sherlock glanced at him.

"They shouldn't exist," John growled softly. "Large I can understand. Thick-soled: maybe if he'd gone without shoes his entire life he possibly could achieve that. But hairy! What is the purpose of all that hair?!"

"What would you deduce?" Sherlock hummed.

"What would _you_ deduce?" John countered. "I'm not your brother; I don't have the deduction thing like you two!"

"No idea," Sherlock returned airily. "Moving on!"

Moving on. There was more? John gave the client a hard stare, and after a few moments noted with surprise, "He stands like Mycroft."

Sherlock threw a dark look at him at the mention of his despised older brother, then back at the client. John ignored this.

"He looks like he's used to being in charge," he elaborated, then smirked. "All he needs is the umbrella."

"And about sixteen more stones," Sherlock added scornfully.

John snickered at that. "He did say that he was on the thin side."

"I believe _you_ mentioned half-starved," Sherlock grinned.

"Yeah, I did," John agreed cheerfully, crossing his arms. "But, yeah," he became serious again. "He looks like he usually has a lot of responsibility, and a lot of people depending on him."

"You're on _sparkling_ form," Sherlock praised. The man seemed to be gaining energy from John's deductions. "What else?"

 _Are we never done with the 'what else'?_

"He's uh..." John studied their client's posture. "He's really nervous too...maybe irritated..."

"Meaning?" Sherlock prompted.

John rolled his eyes. "He's definitely scared of you."

"Really, John," the detective scoffed.

 _Someday, somewhere,_ someone _is going to kill you for being such a_ —.

"What else?"

"Seriously?" John groaned. He studied the client, looking hard for whatever Sherlock would say that he had missed. Finally though he admitted, "Yeah, okay; he looks scared and lost and sad... and I've got nothing. So?" he snarled the word up at his flatmate.

"Better," Sherlock approved. "Much better than last time..."

John waited. This was _not_ all that Sherlock would say.

"...of course, you still missed almost everything, but it's a definite improvement—"

"Just shut up," John growled, quickly turning away to keep from punching the pompous git in the face.

"The creature does live 'off the grid', as you put it: clothing is handmade, unaccustomed to the noise of traffic, walked everywhere his entire life, does not regularly wear shoes but is familiar enough with them to manage. The clothes were commissioned, but not as a costume; more as formal wear."

John shot his flatmate a surprised look.

"Wealthy; well done. Has a manservant, enjoys gardens but doesn't do much digging given the strong scent of green on him combined with the complete pallor of his skin and the lack of callouses. An artist, in fact: calligraphist, dip pen with an old and rather pungent type of ink. The ink combined with the clothing, vocabulary, hobbies, and complete lack of comprehension concerning anything modern indicate a deliberate avoidance of modern life by his entire community rather than a selective avoidance by himself."

John blinked. "His entire community is like this?"

"Yes. Influential member of the community, he _is_ used to being in charge—"

"Oh, good," John muttered. He hadn't tracked _completely_ off.

"—but was recently given more responsibility than he could handle, resulting in the breakdown in health you see as a doctor."

"Oh."

"That, combined with the captivity."

"Right, of course." _Why did I even bother_...

"Accustomed to hiding, larger people giving him trouble, wary of the crowds around him even though they're hardly looking at him; clearly still feeling the affects of his captivity, which was recent enough that it may have something to do with the responsibility he was given. Abused, also during captivity; more mentally and emotionally, but some physical as well."

"Well, that's explains a lot," John muttered, thinking about the shyness of 'healers' and the reluctance to be touched.

"His captors were normal-sized people, but they didn't believe in modern life either: hand-twisted rope, the creature's complete lack of understanding: if he'd been thrown in the back of a car and driven away he'd be terrified of cars but he'd know what they were. This creature has never seen modern technology before this day."  
John reared back a little in surprise. "Really?"

Sherlock gave him a disappointed look. "Look at him," he returned feverishly. "Really _look_ at him."

The two men gazed at the client, who seemed to glare angrily back. Apparently he wasn't appreciating the seeming hiatus in the progress on the case.

"Embarrassed," Sherlock muttered, still in his deducing-every-nook-and-cranny-of-what-you-are mode. "Prefers not to be spoken of: a very private individual, possibly even shy,"

John was surprised to see that slight flush of embarrassment steal across their client's cheeks at those words. Abruptly he felt his stomach drop. They were several metres away and speaking in low(ish) tones. Why was their client responding as if he was right next to them?

"Sherlock?" he muttered. "How well can he hear?"

The detective blinked at him in surprise. "He's heard every word we've said."

John's head whipped toward his flatmate. " _What?!_ "

"It's plainly obvious," Sherlock frowned. "To be honest I thought that it would be the first thing you noticed. But, you're still learning," he added in what was meant to be an encouraging tone.

John felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. "You—you bloody— you just stood there and _let me_ —!" He didn't bother finishing. It wasn't as if the concept of personal boundaries was anything that Sherlock Holmes ever seemed to understand.

"It isn't as if it's anything he didn't already know," Sherlock returned, still oblivious. "He would have to be extraordinarily stupid to—"

"Shut up," John snapped. "Just, shut up."

Sherlock actually stopped.

John glowered. "How much more time do you need?" he demanded curtly.

The intense look came back over Sherlock's face. "Two minutes," he answered.

"Right," John nodded. "You keep at it. I'm going back over there." And he stalked off.

"What? Hoy! Don't walk through my crime scene!" Sherlock barked as John deliberately walked through Sherlock's perimeter.

"It's not a crime; you said so," John snapped, not looking back. The client, watching him approach, became as still and cold as marble.

This was not going to be good.

"Something wrong?" Lestrade wondered, seemingly oblivious to the marble statue at his side.

"Yeah, Sherlock's an arse," John muttered.

"Well, we knew that," the DI chuckled a little.

The client said nothing.

John pursed his lips, still cursing his flatmate. "...So, you heard all that?"

For a few seconds the 'creature' (as Sherlock was referring to him) was absolute silent. Lestrade gave them both a puzzled look.

"Heard what?" he wondered.

Slowly the client's head turned to give John a stare that would have bored a hole through a gun barrel. "An excellent question, Master Lestraad," he returned coolly. "Heard _what_?" The way that he said 'what' left no doubts in John's mind about how good the creature's hearing was. He grimaced.

"Look, mate, I didn't mean—"

"Master Homes has a rather rabbit-like way of conversation, does he not? You at least finish a thought before following with another."

John cringed.

"And to make matters clear, you were correct. This piece was commissioned, although not by myself." He gave the tunic a distasteful glance.

As if it wasn't going to be hard enough to get the bloke to relax before; now he'd have to contend with his own words thrown in the bloke's face too!

"What going on?" Lestrade asked.

"Master Watson and I are coming to an understanding," the client answered, returning his gaze to Sherlock.

"...Yeah," John agreed with a wince. _Yes, they definitely were_.


	7. 6 Drugs Test

A/N: Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! This year I'm grateful for all of you who seem to enjoy my plot behemoth and your encouragement, and especially for Nutathendofthebow, my sister, my beta, my friend (to shamelessly reconstruct Boromir's phrase). Without her vast amounts of assistance there definitely would have been no chapter this week. (Actually, without her pushing me this entire story would still be a cheesy plotline trapped in my head, so I'm _very_ grateful to her.)

 **Chapter 6 - Drugs Test**

John hurried to match his pace to Sherlock's, and their little client had to trot to keep up with the great detective in his mad headlong rush at "having something fun to do". Lestrade they had lost to a date he would be having with his wife that night when Sherlock had pointed out (in rather blunt terms) that if he came with them he would be late, and multiple consequences of being late.

Sherlock, as always, breezed through the corridors of the St Bartholomew's hospital morgue, passing people as if they didn't exist, and dramatically threw open a familiar pair of double doors.

"Ah, Molly. Excellent."

The young woman spun around, startled.

"Sherlock! Hi! W-What are you doing here?" She hastily put down the saw she'd been using and hurried over, removing her face shield and subconsciously straightening her coat to a better fit as she brushed off bits of bone matter and tissue.

"Need to use a laboratory," came the brisk answer. "Throttled?"

Beside John their client stiffened.

Even when a person knew Sherlock and routinely worked with him it was still sometimes (usually!) hard to follow conversations. Molly blinked a frown for a moment before glancing back at the body on her table. "Uh... Yes."

"You didn't call me for this one." Sherlock was already moving toward the body.

"I—didn't think you'd be interested," she answered, eyes, as ever, only for Sherlock.

Sherlock eyed the man's body up and down for a few seconds, observing everything. "Has the killer been found yet?"

"He was caught in the act, from what I understand. Pub fight."

John heard a small noise from their client and glanced down. The bloke's eyes were closed and his face was taking on a greenish hue.

"Mm. Dull."

"Sherlock," John prompted, and when the detective looked at him he nodded surreptitiously down at their client. "Labs?"

It was always odd to see the brilliant Sherlock Holmes visibly pull himself back to his former task.

"Ah. Yes. My lab." He looked intently at Molly, waiting.

Molly's face had gone pale, her eyes wide as she stared at John. No. No, not at John. At their _client_.

"I-I don't— I don't think anyone's using it," she stammered.

Sherlock's gaze flicked between the pair. "You know him," he frowned, concentration burning in his eyes and voice. "No, you don't _know_ him, but you know _of_ him; you think you know who he is, which displeases you for some reason. A disappointment to some vague but cherished hope..." The man's frown deepened, his fingers subconsciously steepling together under his chin. "Why?" he mused. "Who is he?"

Molly looked back at him, her mouth slightly parted as if still in shock. A second passed, and then two before she managed, "I-I don't know. I've never s-seen him before, I think." She turned back to look at the young man again.

Sherlock's frown became one of puzzling something out, but before he could say anything a high voice responded, "Nor have I seen you, mistress, unless you were perhaps in Camden Market earlier this afternoon?" Their client gazed back at her with his own puzzled frown.

Molly's gaze darted between the dark-haired duo again. "No," she answered, her voice a little bit firmer this time. "I've, um, I've been working all day."

"Ah," the client nodded a little apologetically. "Then I could not have met you. But please allow me to introduce myself. Frodo Baggins," bow, "at your - service." The last word was hissed a little more than necessary, and John glanced down to see the 'hobit' gingerly straightening himself, a look of discomfort on his green face. He wobbled a little before regaining his balance.

The forensic pathologist gaped at him for a moment before starting forward saying, "Oh, sorry. Molly Hooper."

"A pleasure, Mistress Hooper," the 'hobit' nodded again. His voice was becoming fainter, more breathy. "If you all will excuse me, I— fear that I need to wait outside. Forgive me." He nodded one last time at the room in general and then left, the doors hardly moving as he slipped out.

John watched him go and then turned back to the others. "Right," he nodded, looking expectantly at Sherlock.

"Weak stomach. Didn't like what he saw. Nausea." Sherlock observed.

"Yeah," John agreed. "That's about right." He left the comment, _that's how most people react when they interrupt an autopsy_ , unspoken.

"Who is he?" Molly managed.

"Client," Sherlock returned, a predatory smile coming to his face. "And one of the most interesting ones I've had in a long time." He began to stride toward the doors.

Molly started. "A _client_?"

"Yeah," John nodded. "He's— yeah, he's a client," he laughed incredulously, still finding it hard to comprehend Sherlock's fascination with the stranger's wild story.

"Might need your assistance," Sherlock tossed back over his shoulder as he threw the left door open.

"I'll just get rid of these." Molly was removing her gloves and spattered coat as she spoke.

"Good idea," Sherlock fake-smiled back at her. "Might be what put him off." And he was out of the room before she had time to react.

"...Okay," she squeaked.

John flashed her an apologetic smile and hurried out as well, not wanting to leave Sherlock alone with a nauseous, possibly delusional, person.

He found his patient leaning against the far wall several metres away, breathing hard and glaring at Sherlock, who was staring back with concentration. John was surprised to notice that if not for his dark hair the kid would have been almost invisible. His cloak blended perfectly against the grey wall.

John approached with concern. "Are you alright, mate? Do we need to slow down?"

"No," the young man shook his head. "I'm - fine; the air was simply getting too close for me."

"No, that had more to do with your past than with the smell," Sherlock observed.

"Master Homes!" the client snapped. "Would you please refrain from speaking your every observation about me!"

Sherlock gave one of his smug fake smiles. "I don't." And he turned and _swooped_ up the corridor, his long coat billowing out behind him like an exclamation point underlining the cockiness of his statement.

John watched his flatmate go, and then turned to gauge their client's reaction. Frodo's lips were pressed tightly together and his breath was almost snorting through his nostrils.

Unsurprised at this reaction (well, maybe that it was so mild) John raised a brow. "You okay?"

With one more deep inhale the young man squared his shoulders, head lifting, and answered shortly, "I will be."

This kid was doing a remarkable job of keeping it together. John stifled a smile of sympathy. "C'mon." He nodded toward the disappearing Sherlock and started walking. After a few seconds he heard the clomping sound of poorly-worn trainers behind him

For a while the pair walked through the halls in (relative) silence. Then footsteps rapidly tapping up the hallway behind them finally broke the awkward tension. Both men turned to see Molly Hooper, breathless, a little pink in the face, and much cleaner as she ran toward the pair. They paused until she could catch up.

"John," she puffed in surprise. "I thought you'd be in the lab by now."

"Yeah, I'm sure Sherlock is," John nodded agreeably.

"It's my fault, mistress," the little client said almost apologetically. "I was unable to keep up with Master Homes, and Master Watson was gracious enough to match his own pace to mine."

"Oh." Molly looked flustered, and John really couldn't blame her; the little bloke looked so much like a kid (traumatised and war-weary, yeah, but still a kid) that it was really disconcerting to hear this precise, overly-formal dialogue come out of his mouth.

"If you wish to go ahead of us you may," the client added with a little smile.

"No. I'll—I'll walk with you if that's all right."

"As you wish, mistress." He nod-bowed again, somehow a bit more deferential than he had been up till now, though John couldn't put his finger on _how_.

Molly blushed. "Just Molly, thanks. It's-it's fine. They began walking again.

"Mistress Molly?"

"Miss," she hastily corrected. "Or you can leave off the 'miss' and just call me Molly; everyone does."

The young man looked a little shocked. "That would - scarcely be polite, and seems quite familiar."

"Well, I-I don't mind familiar, really. In fact, I prefer it. S-sometimes." She ended on a softer note that made John wonder if she was thinking about Sherlock and his overly-familiar habit of using her to get what he wanted.

The client still looked very uncomfortable, but he nodded in agreement. "Very well, Miss Molly. Forgive me for causing you..discomfort."

Right, he even apologised for that? Where was this bloke from?!

Molly too seemed uncomfortable. "Oh, that's all right..um, Frodo, you said?"

Yet another half-bow. "Yes, Frodo Baggins."

Silence for a few paces.

"So," Molly laughed nervously, "How did you meet Sherlock?"

"We were introduced by a guardsman," was the polite answer. _Which_ John noted actually told her nothing.

"A guardsman?" Molly echoed, surprised.

"Forgive me," the young man hastily corrected himself. "A..po-liceman," he glanced at John as if to make sure he had the right word.

"Yeah, Lestrade," John nodded.

"Oh!" Molly's face twitched into a sickly-looking smile. John frowned a little at that. Was Molly okay? "So you, um, you... Wh-what's your case?"

The client returned her smile with a tired one of his own. "I simply have become lost in your city and Master Homes is trying to help me return home."

 _Simply!_ John had to laugh at that one.

Molly frowned a little. "Sherlock doesn't take that sort of case."

The little client looked surprised. "He doesn't?"

"Well, not normally," the pathologist hastily corrected herself. "He usually prefers something - more difficult."

"Ah." The young man looked thoughtful at this whilst another laugh escaped John at _that_ understatement.

"So, i-if you don't mind my asking, what, em, what makes your case so— so different?"

The client gave her a quizzical look and instead asked gently, "Why are you nervous of me, Miss - Molly?"

"Nervous?" she echoed as if trying to fake surprise that he would suggest such a thing.

In answer he gave her a small, almost sad smile. "Your wariness is understandable, mistress, but please allow me to assure you, my people are a peaceful one who rarely even pick up a weapon, let alone attack another. You have nothing to fear from me."

"No, I wasn't— I mean, I didn't—" she paused. "Your people?"

They entered the lab.

"I need saliva, blood, and urine samples, and five more hairs, preferably from the head," came the bark of a man who was already very busy and couldn't be expected to bother with his own errands. The abrupt command stopped the trio as thoroughly as a brick wall would have.

"What for?" John frowned.

"Drugs testing."

Molly's eyes were huge. "You think he's drugged?"

Sherlock straightened up from whatever he was doing and gave the client a quick scan. "Possibly." He returned to work.

Yeah, John had to agree that it was a possibility. In fact, it was the only one that really made sense to John. He turned to their client—and immediately read the signs of impending battle. The young man's cheeks were flushed, his hands were curled into fists, his stance was defensive, and he glared up at John as if daring him to touch anything.

"I have already been over this with Master Lestraad," he began.

"Yeah, and we agreed that you don't actually know what you've put into your body today," John quickly interrupted.

"Master Watson, I have not been given these drugs!" his voice rose in irritation.

John deliberately pitched his voice lower, trying to calm the patient. "Okay, but then how do you explain that you were in a tower one second and in Camden Market the next?" Molly gave them a surprised look.

Their client responded to the tone, calming down but still tersely admitting, "I cannot."

"Okay," John nodded softly. "Can we please just try this so that we can rule out drugs for certain?"

The client still glared. "And what would he be doing with those things?"

Knowing Sherlock, _anything_ is possible.

"Molly, start processing these for soil analysis," Sherlock interrupted.

"Right," Molly nodded, sidestepping the pair.

John sighed. Okay. It was up to him to explain. "Each of those 'things' are good indica— _ways of knowing_ what is currently going on inside your body. When we look at them together we'll be able to get a really good picture of what's happening internally, and after that we won't bother you about the drugs again."

"Water. Beef pasties. Carrots. Strawberries. Bread. Eggs—"

John was feeling that familiar urge to hit his head against something hard (usually induced by Sherlock rather than the client). "Look, mate. If you're worried about the pain, I'm a doctor and I know how to take blood withou—"

"You are not touching my blood."

John pulled back a little, surprised at the steel in the client's voice. "...Okay." He paused briefly to regroup. "Do you mind if I ask why not?"

A long, icy look was levelled at him before the client finally said, "That is my own personal affair."

Right. Well, personal affairs didn't exactly stay personal around Sherlock.

"What about that urine sample?"

"Master Watson, I am not inclined to—"

"Then get out," Sherlock snapped.

The young man looked up, startled. "What?"

"I need those to complete my analysis. If you refuse to give them then clearly you don't want my help. If you don't want my help then leave." Sherlock glared at the little bloke. "But you'll be lucky if you make it through a police interview without being committed, and _if_ they should _try_ to help you they will start with blood and urine samples. But they won't help you."

"And why not?" the young man demanded.

"Because Minas Tirith doesn't seem to exist. The police will dismiss your case as insanity, or decide it's too difficult for them and bring you back to me." He gave the youth a shark-like grin. "I am, after all, the only consulting detective in the world."

"And if I were to refuse to give them my blood as well?"

"They'd turn you out on the streets and let you find your own way. Obviously." He gave the young man another glance of appraisal. "You should last three days. Clearly you have some internal strengths that would help you a little, but with no knowledge of London or how the modern world works, vulnerable size, and your frankly striking looks marking you as a target to any pimp out there I expect that within three days you will have vanished so effectively that only I and the London crime life will ever be able to find you."

"Are you attempting to scare me, Master Homes?" the young man's voice was low.

"No," Sherlock returned, with another predatory smile. "Why would I do that?" His voice turned hard and dead. "I'm just stating the consequences of refusal."

 _Sherlock must want this case pretty badly_. John had never seen him actually _pursue_ a client who was trying to leave. The man only ever chased them away!

The youth continued to gaze steadily at the detective. "And what are the consequences of agreeing?" he countered quietly.

"I solve your case and you're home by Tuesday."

The young man was silent for a minute or two, clearly thinking. Finally he asked, "What would you do with these..items?"

"John already—"

"Master Watson did, yes," the client interrupted firmly. "I should like to hear your answer."

Sherlock stared down the little bloke for a second or two before launching into a long, fast-paced, technical explanation of what he intended to do. A look of confusion came to the young man's face almost immediately and remained there as Sherlock detailed what chemicals would be used to identify the drugs, steps that would be taken to process the dirt procured from the hair on his feet, how much time each process would take, etc. Every time he seemed to stop the young man would prompt, "And is there anything else?" And off Sherlock would go again.

At last he came to a halt for a fourth time and when the young man prompted him again he exploded, "Of course there is, but given that you don't understand any of what I just said there's no point in continuing!"

The young man paused, nodding thoughtfully. Then he asked calmly, "And how would this affect me?"

"It wouldn't unless you're one of those types that gets light-headed when you give blood," Sherlock snapped back. And then, "Oh. Don't be ridiculous! Just because _you_ believe in magic doesn't mean I do, making it impossible for me to perform whatever absurdity you're thinking! It is, in fact, impossible for me to hurt or in any way harm you by taking a few samples for a drugs test!"

Their client looked surprised at having his thoughts correctly deduced, but he just said calmly, "Is it?"

"Completely, other than the initial drawing of blood!"

"And these others?" He turned politely to John. "What think you, Master Watson?"

John blinked, but quickly nodded. "Yeah, he's right."

"About what?" was the rather annoying return.

The doctor sighed. This bloke really didn't like to take the easy way out, did he? "All of it, really." He tried to take a different tack. "I'm guessing you believe in magic?"

Sherlock scoffed at the seemingly inane start, but the odd young man said quietly, "I've been given many reasons to over the course of my life."

Not exactly the answer John had expected.

"Okay... Well, _here,_ in London, we don't really believe in magic—"

"Everything in the world can be explained by a logical outcome _if_ one takes the time to actually stop and reason through what happened instead of ignorantly assuming that the supernatural has occurred," Sherlock snapped. "Sample?"

"Just give us a few minutes, Sherlock," John countered.

"How do you explain then that this is a windowless room, yet it is filled with light?"

John nearly swore. This bloke didn't even know what a doctor was; how was he supposed to explain _this?_

"It's electricity," Molly's soft voice was laced with confusion. "You don't know what that is?"

The young man turned to her. "No, mistr— miss Molly. Would you explain it to me, please?"

Molly was flustered. _Of course_ she was. Who wouldn't be, trying to explain modern concepts to a ghost from the medieval times!

Sherlock actually growled aloud. "If you insist on understanding everything about modern England before you comply then get out!" he snarled. "There's a library ten minutes walk _that_ way!" jabbing a finger towards the door. "Reading every book in there should only take you fifteen years if you get started now. Come back when you understand what you want!"

The young man's gaze flicked to the detective. "I _want_ to go home," he returned simply.

"Then _work_ with me!" Sherlock commanded.

"Sherlock..." John groaned.

Instead of responding the little bloke stood motionless, studying Sherlock with a level of scrutiny that usually only came _from_ the detective. Sherlock stared back; sharp grey eyes rapidly analysing and deducing every nuance of movement or thought (which was surprisingly little).

After nearly a minute of tense silence their client abruptly dipped his head in acknowledgement. "Very well, Master Homes," he said quietly. "I shall comply with your wishes." And without further preamble he turned to John and said, "What must I do?"

After all that fuss the actual taking of the samples was almost anti-climactic. Of course the client was asking questions at every step, and he was naturally disgusted when he learnt _how_ they would obtain some of those samples, _and_ John and Molly were translating every third word (it seemed) into simplified English just so the bloke could understand, but, yeah, that was all sort of to be expected after everything else that they'd been through that day. Finally though, Sherlock had his samples, the client's ruffled dignity had been soothed, and _finally_ : they could get on with the case.

Time passed slowly as Sherlock (and Molly) processed the evidence. John did what he could to help whilst their little client sat quietly, alternating between watching the proceedings around him and studying the dictionary. After an hour or so of this though, with an engrossed Sherlock apparently no nearer to solving the case than before, he caught Molly's attention as she brushed by and asked if it was possible for him to obtain some paper.

"Paper?" she echoed, surprised.

The young man looked at her in dismay. "Yes... where I come from it is a flat sheet on which one would write or draw. If you haven't any though that's perfectly fine."

John and Molly both stared at him. Finally Molly said, "We - do have paper. Why did you describe it?"

The young man shrugged. "You know so little about my home and my ways that I thought an explanation might help," he reasoned. "Might I have a page or two, or is it far too dear for a bored hobbit to use?" He quirked a half-smile at them.

"No, I'll—" Poor Molly seemed to be floundering out of her depth. "I'll go get some." She hesitated. "Do you need a - a pen too?"

His smile turned into a look of quiet resignation. "Thank you, but I tend to carry one with me," he murmured, with a strange air of... well, almost of _confessing_ something. Maybe not something shameful, but certainly something - telling? John found himself trying not to stare at this strange client again.

Molly awkwardly slipped away murmuring something about finding the paper and John decided to go calm Sherlock. In the brief space of time that their conversation had taken the detective had tensed and his movements now were becoming quick and savage. He was on the verge of an explosion, and John did not need the fallout that would produce.

"So, what are you finding?" he asked casually.

Sherlock glanced up at him with a sneer which almost immediately changed to his intense studying expression. "Not much," he clipped back. "Running a DNA analysis right now to determine what he is."

John paused. Blinked.

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock must have noted the confusion in John's tone, for he actually looked up. His grey eyes flicked rapidly over his flatmate, reading his body language. "Problem?"

"You said—"

"Yes, and you heard me the first time. Don't let your 'unshakeable beliefs' in the wisdom of your primary school teachers cloud your judgement!" Sherlock returned haughtily. "It is plainly obvious at first glance that he is not a human. To assure _you_ of this I am running a comparative test between his DNA and an average human."

"Yeah?" That was different. Leave it to Sherlock to test the bloke's story via chemical analysis. "What are you finding?"

"Tests remain inconclusive at this point." And the scientist returned to his experimenting as if dismissing the matter (and John) out of hand.

"And what do you expect to find?"

Nothing. Sherlock was once again absorbed in his own little world. So... No answers for John, but at least the crisis was averted.

It wasn't long before Molly returned with an armful of blank paper which she rather triumphantly set before the client. The young man's eyes widened at the sight.

"Are you certain that you can spare all this?" he gasped.

"Yeah, it's- not a problem," she smiled. "If I run out I can always steal some from the printers."

The client looked alarmed. "Ste— O, stars, I didn't mean for you to steal anything for me. I have a small book for my notes which I can use. You needn't—"

"No, sorry, no. I didn't mean _steal_ ," Molly corrected herself. "What I meant was, we trade paper all the time, back and forth, and when I run out I'll go to the printers to get some. B-But it's not really stolen, I just..I said that." She smiled at him anxiously.

"Ah." Their odd client gazed at her, clearly puzzled, and then a light of understanding broke across his face. "Ah, of course. Forgive me, mistress. I was not thinking. Of course you did not steal it. And I do thank you for bringing it, and so much!" He shook his head in amazement.

Molly laughed nervously. "It's - not a problem," she answered.

He fingered the top page. "And so smooth too," he murmured. "I've never felt better." He gave her a look of slight awe. "You are certain that you can spare this?"

"Yeah, like I said, it's not a problem at all."

"Well, I - do thank you, mistress, very much." He carefully lifted a single sheet as if it was made of gold and placed it before himself.

John couldn't stand the suspense any longer and came over to investigate. "What did you bring him?" He picked up one of the pages.

"Printer paper," Molly shrugged.

The young man looked from one to the other. "I take it that this is common paper," he observed.

"Yep," John agreed.

"Hope you don't mind," Molly added apologetically.

"Not at all," the client assured her. With a slight smirk he added, "I am grateful for anything which may keep me busy, and I'm certain Master Homes will be too."

John and Molly both had to smile at the truth of _that_ statement.

Silence reigned again for a while, broken by the skritching sound of an actual calligraphy pen in the client's hand and, of course, the whirrs, hums, beeps, and other general noises of investigation and discovery (and an animated Sherlock) coming from the other end of the room.

-0-0-0-

A/N: _skritching_ is taken from an old Peanuts comic, when Lucy informs Charlie Brown that Snoopy doesn't like to be scratched, he likes to be _skritched_.

Welcome to the Christmas season, everybody!


	8. 7 Data, Data, Da—

**Chapter 7 - Data, Data, Da—**

"John, look at this."

Sherlock had been studying a print-out of the data from a GC-MS scan, but now he leapt to his feet, pages thrown carelessly onto the table as his fingers flew across the keys of the computer attached to the mass spectrometer.

John hurried over. "What is it?" He leaned around his friend, trying to see. In answer Sherlock shoved the pages at him.

"Computer error, but the data doesn't add up." Sherlock didn't look up as he tore through the read-out. "I need a different sample."

John felt his stomach drop a little at those words. As if it hadn't been hard enough to get the first one? A glance back at the client confirmed that, yes, the little bloke had heard, and was staring at John in alarm, pen poised in mid-air.

"O..kay." Sherlock was already unbuttoning his cuffs impatiently and rolling up his sleeves. John hurried to stop his manic friend. "Hey, _I'll_ get it, thanks."

"Of course you will," Sherlock returned. And he laid out his bare arm as one would when giving blood.

John was stymied. "Wait— _you_?"

Sherlock scowled. "Of course _me_!" he snapped. "I need a blood sample with known identifiable qualities to ensure that the machine is still working correctly before I run any more tests."

"Didn't you run the pre-test? I thought—"

"Of course I did, John, I'm not one of those morons from the Yard!" John winced a little at the harsh, and very unfair, pronouncement. "No," Sherlock analysed. "Either the current sample has been contaminated by an unknown substance, or the machine is broken. Contaminant is looking more likely; initial screening shows unusually high amounts of potassium and hydrogen in the body, but we must rule out the possibility of machine breakdown before investigating further."

"And you're going to use your own blood to do that."

"Why not? I know the composition of my blood and can easily use it as a test."

Well, when he put it that way...

A few minutes later Sherlock was busily testing the "composition" of his blood and John decided to check on their client (who, Sherlock had smugly informed him, had watched the entire process with an appalled fascination).

The little bloke spoke first:

"Master Watson?" his voice was low and worried. "Did he just mix his blood with mine?"

John blinked at the unexpected question. "...N-o."

Those sharp blue eyes scanned his face rapidly (and it was funny, but John could almost have sworn that their client was looking for lies) before he nodded, but he still watched Sherlock with mistrust.

John grimaced a little at that. "Look, can I ask you something?"

"You may ask..." the young man returned doubtfully.

"Why are you so worried about your blood?"

The wary glance that the client flashed over him almost looked involuntary; as if it had been honed by months of fear and was now automatic despite being out of danger. It startled John. Then those eyes locked on the paper in front of him.

John followed his gaze. A half-finished drawing of a horse galloped across the page. He waited.

When it became apparent that the client had no intention of speaking John decided to switch tactics. Gesturing to the drawing he commented, "That's really good." Which it was.

"Thank you," the young man murmured, still not looking up.

The doctor glanced curiously at the other pages beside the young artist. "D'you mind if I look?"

At a shake of the artist's head he picked up the drawings, examining them with interest. The first page had apparently been divided in half, the client drawing a swan on the top half and what looked kind of like a Viking longboat on the bottom. Neither were drawn with great detail and both were rather stylised.

The next page held a drawing of a stylised tree topped by seven stars on a blackened background.

The last page, though, took him by surprise. Where the other drawings had been of one or two straightforward figures _this_ was a sketch of a full-page _landscape_. At first glance it appeared to be a castle of some sort nestled amongst some mountains, but the longer he looked the stranger the castle seemed. For one thing, it was round instead of the customary square-ish with turrets. He could count seven round layers, stacked one on top of the other like concentric circles, with lots of little towers and house-looking things sitting along the walls. In the bottom layer there was a broken gap with a barricade across it where a gate would normally belong. On the top layer stood a single very tall tower rising high into the air and a banner waved in the breeze at the peak of the roof. And then through it all sliced what looked like a sheer cliff, running from the base of the tower down to the very bottom of the 'castle'. The picture was good, if odd; very good, in fact, and confirmed what Sherlock had said about their client being an artist.

"You drew these?"

"Yes," the boy nodded. "I thought that they may help you to know of what I speak."

"How's that?"

The client took back his pages and laid the stylised tree on the table. "This is the standard of Gondor," he explained. "This one is the standard of Dol Amroth, by the sea," he placed the swan and ship beside the tree, "and this is the city of Minas Tirith, as one approaches her from the Fields of the Pelennor." The sketch was carefully laid down. John gave him a look of surprise.

"That's a city?"

"Yes."

"The one that we're looking for?"

"Yes."

John studied the sketch a little more closely.

"That is a - different looking city," he finally muttered.

"Aye," his companion smiled. John glanced down at him. Aye? "I've told Aragorn as much, but he just laughs at me. It is built around and delved into a small mountain, you see, and because they were building around it they had little choice but to go up. I don't know why they left that in, though," tapping the cliff with a finger. "It may have been for the beauty or strength of the city, it may have been because the Númenóreans were a seafaring people and it looked like a ship's prow, or it could just be that the builder had a good head for heights and thought that would be an excellent joke to play on everyone else. There are a dozen opinions on the matter, really, for it's been so long ago since it was built that no-one truly knows any longer."

"Yeah?" John cocked a brow at the chap. "How old?" Old was relative to the person talking, after all.

"I'm not certain," his companion hesitated, "but more than three thousand years."

 _Three thousand. Okay, not a bad numb_ — John froze, staring at him. "Three _thousand_?" he managed.

"Yes," the client returned calmly. "It has stood throughout the Third Age, and I believe that it was built at least a hundred years before the Second Age ended, although I will admit that I have not asked. It does not seem too great a stretch though. The Men of Númenor were very skilled." He finally looked up at John and his expression changed to confusion. "What is it?"

"Three thousand years."

"Yes."

"So, we're talking on par with..Kabul or Jerusalem, or some of those ancient Greek or Chinese cities..."

His companion was shaking his head hesitantly. "I'm - not certain. I know relatively little of the lands of Men other than what I and my uncle have traversed."

"Oh." Well, wasn't _that_ helpful.

Another thought came into his head. "How do you know it's so old?"

"I don't," the client gave him a wry grin. "But it was the stronghold which Anárion took as his home back in the Second Age, so I assume that it was built before the fall of Númenor. Had you ever seen it, carven of stone as it is, you could never doubt that it took a long time to build. At times I look at that cliff and have to wonder if some dwarves were not secretly employed in the building, but everyone claims that the city was built entirely by men."

Second age? Numenor? This delusion or whatever it was had _history_?! And not just a little history; this bloke was seriously discussing 1000 B.C.!

"You've seen this cliff?" he confirmed, tapping the image.

"I have seen it, stood upon it, looked off it—once, that is a _dizzying_ drop; passed through the tunnels bored through it, and threatened to throw my cousins off of it. Yes, Ma— Doctor Watson, I am very familiar with it, the citadel," he pointed out the building at the top of the seventh tier, "the Tower of Ecthelion," pointing to the tall tower with the flag, "and much of the sixth and fourth circles. Although, I will admit, less of the fourth than sixth."

"Okay..." Now this tale was putting on some bulk. Standing on it and going through tunnels were pretty good indications that this thing was real. So, all of a sudden they were looking for an actual city, carved out of stone, ancient compared even to England... "1000 B.C. give or take a little," he muttered.

"I beg your pardon?" the client frowned.

"That's three thousand years ago," John explained. "It'd be.. right around the time of the Greeks, I think."

"Ah." The client eyeballed him thoughtfully. "You measure history differently than we do," he observed.

"Yeah? How do you measure history? Ages?"

"Yes."

John absorbed that information. "So, how long is an age?"

"This one has lasted three thousand nineteen years thus far. The Second Age lasted three thousand four hundred forty-one years, and the first age was six hundred and one years."

John raised a brow. "That's - precise," he muttered.

The client snorted. "When an age ends with some form of disaster and changing of power all tend to sit up and take note of when it happened," he murmured.

"Yeah? What divided your second from the first?"

"The War of Wrath, the destruction of Angband and Beleriand, and the chaining of Melkor." The young man counted on his fingers: "Great destruction, change of power." Then he shivered violently.

Nothing that John was familiar with, but okay. "What about the second age from the third?"

"The destruction of Númenor and reshaping of Arda, the founding of the kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor," the little bloke spoke mechanically, "the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, the taking of.. Mordor," his voice grew softer, until John could barely hear it, "the downfall of... Sauron."

Whatever those were John could see that he needed to remember them. They had a bad effect on the bloke, similar to the volcano discussion earlier. Surreptitiously he pulled out his notebook and jotted a few of them down.

Their client's gaze whipped to him, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

Whatever had bit this poor sod had bit him _hard_.

"I'm taking notes."

"On the Second Age?" the client returned dryly.

John shrugged a little. "You see that man over there?" pointing to Sherlock, obliviously staring into his microscope. "Any thing that you say, even the least little thing, could be the key to solving your case. So, yeah. I'm going to take notes if I think that anything you're saying might be helpful."

"But surely your histories will tell you as much as I just did."

"Actually I get the feeling that you and I have very different histories," John returned. Which was putting things mildly.

A look of interest perked up the youth's suspicious gaze. "I should like to read your histories," he commented.

John wasn't sure what to say to that, so he let it slide.

With a lull in the conversation Frodo apparently decided to turn the discussion back. Tapping the drawings he asked, "Do you think that these will help you?"

John shrugged. "We can only try, right? I'll see if I can get Sherlock to take a look at them."

"But you do not recognise them yourself," the client confirmed.

"No, but I'm not exactly up on medieval heraldry, or - second ages."

The client tilted his head sideways. "Midevil?" he asked curiously.

"Yeah, you know. The time of the dark ages and knights and castles, King Arthur, feudal lords and their wars." At the client's blank look he continued, "the Crusades, the Black Plague," still blank. "Robin Hood?" As the client slowly began to shake his head John added dryly, "It's the time period that your clothes are from."

The young man glanced down at his tunic in disgust and then gave John a dry look of his own. "My clothing came from our new king and his perverse sense of humour."

"Oh." John side-eyed the client's tunic again. "So, you actually _aren't_ interested in the medieval times?"

The young man snorted. "Forgive me, Master Wats— _Doctor_ Watson, but I understood nothing of what you said other than 'knights and castles'."

"Well, we're even then because I didn't get even half of what you said about..Nu-me-nor and the second age."

Frodo gave him a thin smile and began to thumb through the dictionary lying beside his pictures.

"So, your king dressed you like this for a joke?"

Their client's ear—his _pointed_ ear—twitched.

Twitched.

As in: visibly moved up and down. And suddenly John could see why Sherlock kept calling their newest client "the creature". The movement looked as natural on the little bloke as a yawn did on a cat, and for that very reason it seemed completely and utterly alien.

"One could say that," the creature agreed quietly. _Client_ , John reminded himself, _client. A lot of people can move their ears like that._ This was just some sort of sick joke that someone was playing on them, or at the very least on the confused young man sitting beside him.

A joke which Sherlock Holmes was falling for. Completely. And _that_ fact made no sense; Sherlock was the _last_ person to fall for a hoax like this, especially such an _obvious_ one! And yet..what had he said?

 _"Don't let your 'unshakeable beliefs' in the wisdom of your primary school teachers cloud your judgement! It is plainly obvious at first glance that he is not a human."_

It wasn't like Sherlock at all to fall for such a lie, but the idea of the bloke sitting next to him not being _human_?! That defied all reason and logic!

"Master Watson? How do you spell that word?" the young man sounded frustrated as well, but for an entirely different reason.

 **o**

A few minutes and one spelling assist later the young man put down the dictionary with an unsatisfied look on his face. John knew the feeling.

"Did you find it?" he asked politely, not really interested in the answer.

"In a manner of speaking," the boy answered. "Apparently it is anything related to the Middle Ages, which is a period of Ay-you-ro-pawn history between the ancient and modern times. Which tells me very little and answers no questions at all."

"A period of _what_?" John barked.

"Ayuropan history." This time he rolled the 'R' a little.

"And what's that?"

"A period of history," the young man repeated, "although not one with which _I_ am familiar."

A-U-rOp-an? "How do you spell that?"

"T - H - A - T."

John blinked. Had he just— Had the creature just— "Ha, ha," he returned dryly.

Their client raised one eyebrow in a wry look that warred between amused and mildly reproving. "You _did_ ask," was the calm retort. "E. U. R-o-p-e. A-n."

". . . European?"

"I assume that you know how to pronounce it better than I."

John leaned over so that he could look the boy in the eyes and carefully pronounced, "IT."

The client stared at him for a moment before bursting into peals of laughter. The sound was surprisingly light and John smiled a little with the bloke. "Doctor Watson," the boy giggled, "I believe that you would get along with my cousins rather well."

"Shut up!" Sherlock bellowed. "Impossible for a person to _think_ with the noise _you two_ are making!"

John ignored this because the little client had physically flinched at the first shout. He studied the pale face and rapidly darting eyes and privately sighed. _And the bloke's problems just keep mounting_.

-0-0-0-

 _A while later..._

"Doctor Watson?"

John sighed inwardly at the soft words. "You know, you really could call—" he looked up from his reading to find that their client had somehow _soundlessly_ crossed the room, and now stood only a few feet away. John blinked at him, and then at the table where he could have sworn the bloke was still seated.

"How'd you do that?"

The client frowned back. "Do what?"

John stared at him for a minute before: "Never mind," he shrugged. "You wanted something?"

"Yes. I was wondering if you would have access to a map of Middle-Earth."

"...Middle Earth?" John echoed slowly.

"Yes," the boy nodded. "As you likely realise I am..something of a scholar and am familiar with maps and their ways. I thought that if you could provide one I would at least be able to find out how near I am to Gondor..or - whatever outlying regions we may be near."

John thought about that. "It's not a bad idea," he acknowledged, "but there is one problem."

The client tilted his head inquisitively, waiting.

"I don't know what middle Earth is."

As he expected, their strange client straightened in shock, barely managing an ineloquent, "You - what?"

John gave him a grim smile. "Yeah."

The client just stood there, staring at him as if John had suddenly grown a third ear.

"Now, I have heard of _Earth_ ," John offered, "and we've got maps of _Earth_ , but I don't know where this _middle_ comes in."

"Earth," the client muttered softly, brow furrowing again.

"Yes."

"..Perhaps it is similar to 'doctor' and 'healer'," the young man finally suggested. "What is 'Earth'?"

Even though he was expecting the question it was still jarring to actually hear it voiced, and he had to take a few seconds to regroup. "Earth is..the planet we're standing on." Nope, no good; he could already see the brow wrinkling. "It's eh.. It's all of the land and the seas." Better. "We..we lump it all together..under one - title, and call it Earth, or the world."

Now the client was nodding. " _That_ is what I need," he smiled. "We also call it 'the world' and I need a map of the world."

"Okay, _that_ I can help you with," John smiled back, rising as he spoke. Then he paused. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" the client echoed anxiously.

"Well," John grimaced, "we're in a hospital, in a laboratory. I don't know that we'll find a map around here."

"O." The client's erect posture slumped a little, clearly discouraged.

"Let me ask Molly; maybe she knows," John added quickly. The client gave a single nod (whether of agreement or permission John wasn't sure), and the doctor hurried over to the young woman busy with the urine analysis.

"Molly?"

"Yeah?" she smiled up at him.

He quirked an awkward smile back. "Do you know if there's a map of the world anywhere in this building?"

She bit her lip thoughtfully. "I don't know for certain, but you might try the library upstairs. They - they might have something, but I don't— I've never looked for a map here," her smile became a wince.

"Yeah, me either," he nodded. "That's - not a bad idea. Ta."

"No problem," she returned as he went back to the client, who seemed to be staring through John's soul as he silently waited.

"Okay, here's the plan." _A: you stop looking at me like that!_ "Since you're the client Sherlock might need you for something yet, so I need you to stay here while I go check out the library. If they don't have anything we'll see about heading back to the flat because I know that we've got a map there. Does that sound like it would work?"

"Yes," the client agreed, but another wary, almost involuntary dart of the eyes towards the detective told John that the poor bloke was still nervous about Sherlock. And honestly? Who wouldn't be? (Besides himself, of course)

John sighed. "Look, mate, if he says anything to you try not to take offence at it. He doesn't—" John broke off. Generally he _did_ mean it; John couldn't say that... _but_... "He's not very good with social cues," _very true!_ "and..he, um, he forgets that there's a _proper_ way to ask certain things, and he also forgets that there are certain things you don't ask." John was convinced that most of the time Sherlock just flounced the rules because he wanted to, but there _were_ times that the detective would turn on him with such bewilderment, as if he couldn't comprehend _what_ he had done wrong. "Just, uh, just stay in your corner and keep quiet and he'll probably forget all about you. Okay?"

"Very well," their client nodded deeply.

 _Couldn't he please just quit doing that?!_

 **o**

Several minutes later John returned triumphant. Or, at least...

"Okay, I've got one. It's not _middle_ Earth, but it _is_ a map of the world. Think it'll do?"

"It will do at least for a start," the youth nodded, clearing away his papers. "Thank you, Doctor Watson," words accompanied, of course, by yet another polite nod-bow.

"Yeah," John grunted, hefting the large book onto the table. He smirked a little as the client's eyes widened at the sight of it: more than half the size of the little bloke. Still smirking, John began thumbing through the pages to the one he wanted. "Here you go: a map of the world." A very nice fold-out map, showing both political and geographical features, the sort of map that would be a joy to steal out of the book and blatantly display on a wall. John made a mental note to be certain that his pick-pocketing flatmate didn't get his hands on the book before it could be returned _intact_.

The client clambered back up on his stool to see. And then stared silently at the map. John glanced at him. The little bloke's eyes were the size of saucers as he took in the mass of land and sea.

"If it helps, here's London," John offered. pointing out the city's dot. That seemed to snap the young man out of his 'trance'.

"Thank you," he murmured. "And the legend is..."

"Here." John pointed it out.

"Ah, thank you." And the client proceeded to study it. And then paled, his eyes scanning the land masses again.

John waited, fingering the notebook in his pocket. Anything that the bloke said could be the clue that was needed to crack the case; he wanted to be ready. As the seconds turned into minutes though the silence stretched on. The little chap was apparently _very_ good at being silent. He carefully studied the map from above, then braced himself against it to study the land in-depth, and then took a brief break to draw a few lines (to scale apparently: he kept comparing them to the legend) on the back of one of his pictures (an old man with a rather large brimmed hat and more medieval clothes). When, however, their client ended up half-climbing on top of the book trying to compare his lines to various mountain ranges in the Americas (well, it _was_ a large map even to John), the doctor decided that it was time to intervene.

"Can I help you find anything?"

There was a pause and then the client hesitantly replied, "I'm - looking for the Misty Mountains."

"Is it a couple of mountains, or is it a whole range?"

"A range of mountains some seven hundred miles long, dividing the East-lands from West."

"Okay." So, not a big range, but still easy enough to find. "And it goes North to South?"

"Yes."

"Then why don't we try a topographical map?" he suggested

"Topograficle?" John could hear the confusion lurking behind the polite query.

"It shows what the landscape is like," he answered.

"O." Frodo seemed to think that through briefly. "Will it show _all_ of the land that there is?"

"Yeah, mate," John chuckled.

"..We could at least try that," the young man nodded, climbing back to his stool. John folded the map back up and flipped through a few pages. "Here," he paused, laying open the page. "Best I can do."

The pair studied the map for a few moments, but soon Frodo straightened back up.

"Doctor Watson," he began cautiously, "I am sorry to tell you that this map is incorrect."

John's brow rose. "Yeah?" he returned. "How so?"

"It is missing much land."

Well, there was another new claim. "Really?" he returned.

"Yes."

"Like what?"

Their client started, staring at John in shock. Then he began listing: "Gondor, Eriador, Lindon, Rohan, the Misty Mountains, the Anduin, Mirkwood, Fangorn, Rhun, Harad—"

"Cities?" John ventured, cutting off what sounded like it would be a very lengthy list.

"Lands!" the client protested. "Wide _realms_ of land!"

Okay, troublesome, but not the worst that John had heard this afternoon.

"Maybe you need something more local?" he suggested.

The client looked at him askance. "How can a chain of mountains stretching some seven hundred miles be considered local?"

Well, maybe John hadn't thought that through completely...

"I meant the lands," he corrected himself. "Maybe your lands are a little smaller than you think."

The young man huffed at him. "Even were that so it does not change the fact that Lindon and Gondor are both bordered by the Sea, nor does it change the length of the Misty Mountains. I do not see either of those boundaries on this map!"

"Okay, which sea?" John was already looking. "West side or East?"

"The Sea is to West of the world," was the wistful answer. "Mordor to East, the Great Sea to West. And in between lie the Misty Mountains!" he added more forcefully.

Right... "And you're sure it's a sea and not something else?"

The look he now received reminded him of the sort a professor would give a particularly stupid student. "Doctor Watson, I speak of the Belegaer."

"And that is?"

Their client nearly gaped at him. "The Belegaer," he repeated more emphatically. "The Great Sea which lies in the west of the world, which once separated Valinor from the lands of Middle-Earth!"

John blinked. "Yeah, not ringing a bell, sorry."  
"I speak of the west-most sea—"

"Yeah, I get that," John agreed. "But I'm starting to think that our geographies are as different as our histories." Maybe if he included himself the reaction would be less dramatic?

The young man studied him thoughtfully. "Perhaps you have a different name for that as well," he suggested, but the doubtful look in his eyes seemed to negate the words.

"Maybe," John nodded.

The client was silent for another minute or two as he studied the map. When he spoke again the clear voice seemed muted, heavy almost, and lower than before. "Very well, Doctor Watson. I am looking for a land enclosed on three sides like a box. The northern mountains span some five hundred miles. To West the Ephel Dúath stretches more than three hundred miles before turning South for five hundred miles farther. The mountains are nearly unassailable and the land within has a dread reputation."

John pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling thoroughly tired from riddles. "Does it have a name?"

"If you know not the Belegaer by that name why would you know the Black Land as Mordor?" their client returned quietly.

Alright. The kid had a point, and John had a name, and maybe it was a useless name, but still, if they needed it John had it. He turned his attention back to the map. "Black land," he muttered to himself. Could that be something in Africa? Or maybe the Americas? Or could it refer to oil and the Middle East? John paused, mentally weighing the two. Middle East. Middle Earth. They _did_ sound fairly similar. And the Middle East did have a lot of mountains, and even some volcanoes. One could even make the argument that the 'Cradle of Civilization' was the _middle_ of the world. He couldn't remember that _particular_ chain of mountains, but if it was something really local in, say..Saudi Arabia, then he wouldn't have known about it anyway. Of course, if there was actually something more...sinister going on it would also be easy enough to fake a map if the intended victim didn't get out much...

"So, can you tell me about this 'black land'?"

A stern look was levelled at him. "All we need do is find this box-like formation of mountains," the young man returned. "If this map truly shows _all_ of the land then it should be here somewhere."

The words snagged on John's brain and he gave his companion a frown. "And - the Misty Mountains wouldn't?"

"They should be also," the client agreed, "but the Ephel Dúath and the Ered Lithui are far more - recognisable."

Okay, he was no Sherlock Holmes, but that little pause seemed to say that this 'Effel Doo-ath' was important, at least to their client, but more likely to everyone where he came from, and that he was expected to know at least this much because 'everyone' did. Mentally he jotted the name down alongside the information from earlier. Physically he nodded and began scanning the map for any sort of three-sided mountain range.

It wasn't long before John was ready to give up. There weren't a lot of ranges that fit the client's description, and of the few which John thought _might_ fit the young man would quickly veto. The youth was clearly getting as frustrated as John too, which helped nothing.

"Okay," the soldier finally declared. "That's it."

The boy looked at him in consternation. "It cannot be," he countered.

John sighed. "Look, mate, we've been over the map twice. There isn't any more land."

"There _is_ , though!" his companion protested. "You are missing large - portions of land!"

With a frustrated shrug John jabbed a thumb at the map. "Do you want to go over it a third time? We _can_ , but I really don't think it'll help."

Frodo dismissed the idea with a shake of his head. "No, of course not. We need a different map; one of _all_ of the land."

An incredulous laugh escaped the army soldier before he could stop it. There was no getting through to this bloke! "This _is_ a map of all of the world," he retorted. "There's no more world to be discovered as far as.. anyone can find. We traced it with sa—" he caught himself mid-word and studied his odd companion. "Yeah, like you're going to know what a satellite is," he muttered to himself.

"A what?"

"Nothing. But _this_ is all of the world—all of the land that exists."

The boy sighed, as if _he_ was the one who had every right to be fed up. "I'm sorry, Doctor Watson, but it is not."

"Well, maybe it's like I said, and you need something more local," John suggested.

"Master Watson, there is _nothing_ 'local' about Mordor!" the client laughed bitterly.

"Well, we've been over this map twice," John growled. "I don't think it's on here!"

"No, I agree," the young man nodded. "We need a different map."

"Ki—" he broke off, pinching at the bridge of his nose again to try and calm himself. "Okay," he started again. "Let's take a step back and look at this from a different angle. Going by your map, how many of these lands have you visited?"

Frodo also paused. "Eriador, Rhovanion, the Misty Mountains—or the Hithaeglir, if that helps, the Anduin, the Emyn Muil, Mordor, and Gondor."

"And all of the land matched what was on the map?"

"Certainly."

 _No, there's really nothing 'certain' about this case_.

"Okay..."

"John?" Molly's hesitant voice cut in behind them. "You might ask him about the date."

John glanced at her, puzzled at the odd suggestion, but a sigh from the client distracted him.

"Please, Miss Molly, not again," the young man muttered.

John's eyes darted between the pair. "Why?" he demanded. "What's the date?"

"It really has no bearing on the problem at hand," was the English tutor's prim retort.

"It might," Molly returned. "Please tell him?"

"Master Homes didn't seem to think so," he returned dryly.

"He's working," she explained. "He's like that when he's working."

Now John was getting curious despite himself. "What's the date?" he repeated.

Molly gave Frodo an imploring look. "Please tell him?" she coaxed.

With a frustrated sigh the client drew himself up very straight and returned, "It is the fourteenth of Thrimidge, which is May by your reckoning, Third Age, 3019."

John froze, running the words through his mind. Surely he had misheard that...

"May?"

"Yes," Frodo bit back irritably.

 _No. No, not_ yes _. Not at all!_

Slowly John turned towards Molly. "How did you—" he began.

"He mentioned that it was cold for May," she answered softly.

The words seemed to echo through John's mind. "..Did you tell him?"

"I tried."

John turned back to the strange client. "May...like spring?"

The young man sighed impatiently. "Yes, Doctor Watson, it is spring," he agreed. "The return of life to the plants, the warming of the sun, the birth of—"

"Yeah, okay, I get it," John hastily cut him off.

"Good." The client nodded. "Then if we could return to the matter of this map—"

"No, wait," John held up a hand, not about to let this go, and especially not to go back to the bloody map! The boy politely obliged, as John had known he would. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. The differences in maps were difficult to reconcile, but it _could_ be done, but this?

"Why do you think it's May? We'll start there."

The client gave him a puzzled look, opened his mouth as if to say something, and then paused and closed it again, studying the man beside him. John (and Molly) waited.

Finally, what very hesitantly came out was, "I beg your pardon?"

"Why do you think it's May?" John repeated.

"...I - don't believe that I understand the question, Doctor Watson," the young man returned carefully. "I do not _think_ that it is May at all; I _know_ that it is May."

 _Did you honestly expect a different answer, John?_ demanded a scornful little voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his flatmate. John glanced towards the _real_ Sherlock, but thankfully he was bent over the table doing something with a pipette and kept his mouth shut.

He turned back to the client with a sigh. "Yeah, okay; but - what are the _signs_ that you've seen that - tell you it's May?" Maybe that would come across as less hostile?

Again the young man frowned very hard at him, puzzling over the words. Several times it looked like he was about to speak, but he'd look away again until he found some other reason to frown at John. Eventually he spoke slowly: "The greening of the leaves in the trees and the gardens, the patterns in the stars, the passing of the heavier spring rains, the flowers in the gardens, the young families of fowl scattered through Minas Tirith, Pippin's birthday, Aragorn's coronation—"

"And have you seen any of these recently?"

The client side-eyed him suspiciously. "I had a look at the stars last night, Pippin's birthday was eleven days ago, Aragorn's coronation was but thirteen days ago—"

"Okay, but the trees? Flowers?"

Their client stared at him with a look of... _pity?_ in his eyes. "Forgive me, Doctor Watson, but how do you not know these things? The greening at least you cannot mistake for anything else."

"True," John agreed. "When was the last time you saw them?"

Frodo sighed. "But five minutes before I sat down on that accursed bench."

A snort escaped John at _that_ description.

At first the client just stared him down with great dignity, but then he also chuckled, sheepishly. "I suppose that is rather an exaggeration," he admitted. "But I will be surprised if it is not destroyed within a day of my return."

"Yeah, maybe," John agreed. Five minutes? _How?!_

Molly was looking from one to the other in confusion. "What bench?"

John glanced at her. "Oh, you're not going to believe this."

For the next several minutes he (and Frodo very reluctantly) quietly told her the whole story, all the way down to the return to Camden. By the time it was finished the poor pathologist looked as confused as John felt.

"And you say that all you did was sit on a bench?"

"Yes, mistress," the client sighed, absently tracing the neckline of his shirt with a finger. He quirked a tiny smile at her. "It really is a most alarming turn of events."

"Yes," she murmured, thinking. "And you don't know why?"

He gave her a discouraged smile. "Meaning no disrespect to Master Homes' abilities, but if I knew why I doubt I'd be here."

"No. No, of course not," she hastily agreed. "But, um, were you, maybe... Wh-when you..stood up— in Camden did you feel dizzy or nauseous, or did you maybe have a headache or anything?"

"Perhaps a little, but I believe it was simply the strangeness of it all," the young man admitted quietly. "Why?"

"Well, you don't exactly look like someone who's coming off of a high," Molly smiled sheepishly.

Frodo paused, blinked, and then echoed tiredly, "A high?"

"It's another word for using drugs," John explained.

The young man blinked again, and then jolted as if he'd heard a glass shatter, rocking the stool he was perched on a little. "That's what Master Lestraad meant?!"

"Uh, probably, yeah," John agreed.

Their client's face took on a look of irritation. After a moment he said carefully, "What is the purpose of 'drugs' and why is everyone convinced that I have used them?"

Doctor and pathologist exchanged a look.

John tried first. "Okay, first of all, 'drugs' actually has two meanings. The first one just means medicine; any sort of medicine that you might take when you are sick or injured."

The young man thought through that for a moment. "Draughts."

The old-fashioned word caught John completely off guard, and he stared at their odd client for a minute before confirming, "Yeah. Draughts."  
"And other various compounds which healers tend to make."

"Y-eah."

"As long as they're actually for healing purposes and not - well, other things," Molly added.

The client blinked. "What other purpose would they—"

"Shut _up_!" Sherlock abruptly snarled from across the room.

The young man jumped and John and Molly exchanged a long-suffering look.

"We could take it to a conference room," John muttered.

The client, however, climbed off of his stool and marched— _silently_ , John noted as the hair stood up on the back of his neck—over to Sherlock. (John followed with concern.) Drawing himself up with great dignity he began, "Master Homes, I do not understan—"

"That's why I gave you the dictionary," Sherlock snapped back, not looking up. "Please, feel free to take it with you when you leave!" he added sarcastically.

The client paused again, scowling. "I don—"

"What's wrong?" Sherlock demanded, now glaring at their client. "Did your 'people' deliberately bury your head in the sand the minute you were born?" The client paled, eyes narrowing dangerously as he stared back at the detective, right hand clenching into a fist at his side. "You clearly live in a farming community: hills, plains, and sparse woodland; nowhere near any sort of mountains or inaccessible area. Your accent is formal English, scholar, native, not a transfer. You live here. You should have vehicles driving through constantly. What do you morons do, run in fear every time a _bicycle_ goes by?"

"Mister Homes," their client barked. "You believe me to be sheltered, but I assure you; I have travelled the breadth of Middle-Earth, on my own feet, for _six months_ , and in that time I have never once seen anything like the machinery you seem to take for granted. I have visited places as... uncouth as Mordor and as elegant as Lothlórien and Minas Tirith, and I—" He froze, a strange look creeping over his face, mouth still open. Sherlock paused too, studying. The room remained that way for several seconds. Then slowly, in a much quieter and slightly lost tone, Frodo continued, "I have never - seen a car. Not even in the battle." His eyes sought Sherlock's.

John's mind honed instinctively on _the battle_. What battle?

"If anyone would have - known of your machinery..it would have been Sauron, who sends his spies throughout all the lands - yet he didn't. They would have told me. Surely," he turned to John, something like fear or desperation growing in the back of his eyes, "a metal box that size, hurling forward at that speed, would damage a horse, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah," John agreed.

"Obviously," Sherlock retorted.

"And yet he didn't use them," the youth murmured, again motionless, again staring at Sherlock.

Abruptly he spun to face John, the desperation in his eyes kindled to full flame. "Can you assure me that this is not a dream? Do you have _evidence_ of that?"

John blinked at the sudden change, then offered a pinch while Sherlock, having clearly recovered from his own shock, began spewing out a dozen indicators (liberally sprinkled with scathing commentary on their client's intelligence) that they stood in reality.

The client instantly recoiled from John, muttering something about not wishing to deal with those consequences. With a shrug John lowered his hand and thought. After a few moments a rather devious idea came to mind.

"There is one thing that will prove, beyond a doubt, whether this is a dream or not."

Frodo looked at him warily. "Does it involve any form of pain?"

"No. It involves a fall."

The boy looked like he was taking measured breaths. "A fall," he echoed.

"Yeah. The way it was explained to me is that..." John paused, trying to think of the best wording. "Basically, when you're dreaming - when you're in a dream and you start falling you automatically wake up, right?"

The little creature hesitated, thinking. "I'm not certain about aa-tomatically, but yes, one does tend to waken when falling."

"Good." John began clearing a space at the end of the table. When the space looked big enough for the large feet he turned back to the little creature and, gesturing to the empty spot, said, "Would you mind climbing up here?"

Frodo eyed him warily. "Would you mind explaining your plan first?"

John found himself nodding approvingly. "You're going to stand on the table and fall backwards. I'll be right behind you to catch you. If this is a dream you'll go straight through my hands and keep falling until you wake up, right?"

"Likely," the client hesitated.

"The same if this is a hallucination?"

"I'm not certain what that is."

John sighed.

"It's when you see or hear something that isn't actually there," Molly answered instead.

Their client turned his attention to her. "If he isn't actually there then he won't be able to catch me."

"Well, yes," Molly agreed, "but at least you'll know he isn't real."

"...True."

"But if I catch you," John put in. "If you only fall a few feet and I catch you in my arms? Then I think we can safely say that this is reality."

"...True," the client agreed again. He scrutinised John thoughtfully whilst Sherlock scornfully commented on how ridiculous he was being. John was impressed to see that the little bloke not only managed to ignore Sherlock, but didn't even indicate that he'd heard the words, something which John knew _well_ was very difficult to do. Finally though the boy murmured, "Very well," and carefully climbed up onto the table. John found himself staring at the sight of those feet in action. No one was ever going to believe this; not even on the blog!

Once in place the client threw an anxious look over his shoulder at John.

The doctor gave him a reassuring smile and held out his arms. "Ready."

Frodo nodded, then stood motionless for several seconds as if he was trying to prepare himself for the fall.

 _Poor sod_. "I will catch you."

"Not if you aren't there," he murmured, and drawing a deep breath launched himself backwards. Mid-air the boy managed to twist himself around so that he would land on his hands and feet rather than his back. Consequently, when John easily caught their client he was immediately face to face with a pair of very wide blue eyes. The client stared back, mouth tightly shut, fear blossoming in his eyes as he silently dangled in John's grip.

"Okay," John smiled a patented doctorly reassurance smile. "Convinced?"

The client's breath was chugging out of his nostrils and John could feel him trembling. The doctor carefully set him on the ground and watched as the client slowly backed a few paces away. His gaze darted frantically around the room as if seeing his surroundings for the first time.

"Where am I?" His voice was shaking, poor bloke.

"London," John answered.

"No, please!" he exclaimed, throwing up a hand as if to ward off the words. "Please do not say it again. I am not there; I _cannot_ be there! That is nowhere near Mordor! I cannot even find it on that map!" He was going to work himself into a fit in a minute.

John shook his head. "Molly, could you get me a glass of water?"

"What? Yes." And the pathologist scurried to find a cup while John cautiously moved toward the client and placed a hand on the small shoulder. The poor creature looked up at him in fear and John gave him another reassuring smile.

"Don't worry, mate," he murmured. "We'll figure this out."

"But he would have used them!" Frodo protested. "He sends his spies throughout every land; not even the Shire was left untouched and we are a peaceful people with few weapons and fewer warriors! You—!" His breath was coming even faster. "From what little I have seen of your machines and abilities you could have destroyed us all. Yet he took nothing? None of your weaponry or buildings?!" His voice was getting rather shrill.

"Okay. It's okay," John soothed, gently rubbing the shoulder.

"No, it is not," the boy protested.

"I know," John agreed quietly, "but right now I need it to be okay. I need you to breathe."

"Breathe?!"

"Yeah." John kept his voice low and firm, but understanding. "Just breathe with me, okay? Breathe in through your nose for three seconds, then hold it."

"You're mad," John heard him mutter under his breath.

"No, I'm a doctor," John smirked, and the client flushed at being heard. "Now, can you work with me? Breathe in through the nose... Good. Nice deep breath, one, two, three...hold it. One, two, three, and now let it out through your mouth one, two, three, four, five, six. Good. Now, again." The patient gave him a dirty look but dutifully drew in another breath. "Just like that," John praised. "Good. Thanks, Molly," he added, taking the requested glass of water from the young woman. "Just keep breathing, Frodo. Relax."

"Relax," the client scoffed, breathing out.

"You're doing fine."

"No, I'm not," he was calmly informed. "I'm going mad."

John bit back an amused smile. "No, you're not. We just proved that, remember?"

Frodo's breathing became a little more pronounced again.

"Easy, easy. In through the nose," John corrected. "One, two, good." The patient's breathing regulated again.

"This is ridiculous!" the young man breathed out irritably as he continued the exercise. John chuckled a little at the sneaky technique. The stubborn bloke definitely wasn't going to make things easy for them.

After a few minutes of this John finally felt it safe to offer the patient the glass of water. Said patient eyed it suspiciously and then, again on the out-breath, demanded to know what was in it.

"Just water," John reassured him, feeling a little alarmed that the patient immediately suspected a simple glass of water, something that in most cultures would be deemed ordinary courtesy. "I would never put something in your drink without telling you about it."

The sceptical look John was given made the doctor wince. What had the poor bloke gone through to make him react like that? He did, however, take the water. John noted with approval that he slowly sipped at the liquid, pausing at times to do the breathing exercise again. He always faltered though the instant his gaze fell on Sherlock or any of the lab equipment.

 _That's..really not good._

It was just on the tip of his tongue to suggest that they head back to Baker St where the little bloke could at least rest a bit when the young man looked up at him, face still pale and breath shaky, but with a determined set to his eyes and jaw.

"I-I need a map - of Middle-Earth," he managed.

John groaned. "Look, mate, we've been over this—"

"Forgive me, Doctor Watson—"

"John," he protested, thoroughly tired of _that_ little bit of 'common courtesy'.

"—but all that we have proven is that you need a new map," the client continued as if he hadn't heard. "Something very strange may have happened in that tower, but it does not change the lands."

 _Except that according to you it did_.

"And perhaps I do not need the _whole_ of the world, but I do need a map which shows both London and Mordor."

John felt sorry for the little bloke, but still! "I don't think you're going to find it, mate," he said gently.

The boy gazed up at him, fear warring with determination. "I _must_ find it," he returned. "Lands do not simply vanish within an instant. A day, yes," he added. "I will grant you a day, but never within five minutes."

"A day?" John asked sceptically.

"Númenor," Frodo returned.

John nearly asked, even opened his mouth to ask, then closed it again deciding that he was better off not knowing (at least yet).

"Do you happen to know a scholar who would have access to such a thing, or perhaps of an archive or — a library!" he suddenly became enthusiastic. "Surely a library larger than the hospittle one upstairs would have maps of foreign kingdoms. Do you have access to a larger library?"

He looked so hopeful that John hated to dash his hopes again, but... "I do, but if your — er, spymaster couldn't find us how would we be able to find him?"

"We must at least try, Doctor Watson. I cannot simply sit here another minute. You tell me that my—my _life_ has disappeared, my family, my home; and I cannot accept that. Please, whilst your friend is looking for the reason _why_ I came here might we look for a map?"

John sighed. "I guess we can try."

-0-0-0-

A/N: Any faulty world history information is deliberate because I didn't know how much ancient history an army doctor would actually know right off the top of his head. Any faulty Middle-Earth history or scientific knowledge is my fault and if you can give me the correct information I'd be happy to receive it. I made up Pippin's birthday and the biology of hobbits.

In case anyone was wondering, yes, John is thinking of the 'kick' from Inception for the 'test'. The film came out in July, 2010 and this story starts in October 2010. Y-ES! Hooray for real-world timing!

The title is taken from a music title in Robert Downey Jr.'s Sherlock Holmes.

"not even the Shire was left untouched" - Frodo is thinking specifically of the Black Riders that originally chased him out of the Shire.

Frodo's little twist in the air actually comes from author Llinos. It seemed like such a perfectly natural trait in a hobbit that all of 'my' hobbits do it too.

A/N2: I only have partial chapters typed up from here on, so this story is no longer even on any sort of _attempt_ at a posting schedule. I'll just post when I get a chapter finished. Take care all; I'll see you later. Merry Christmas, and I hope that you all have a good year too.


	9. 8 Very Lost

**Chapter 8 - Very Lost**

Frodo crashed numbly onto the settle in Jon's home, absently picking at the lacing of the shoes, his head whirling too much to even hear the man with him. How could he be here? _How?_

There had been no maps; at least, there had been no maps of Middle-Earth; not even partial maps. Even a single reference to Mordor would have at least given him a point of reference from which to begin a search, but no. They had visited _three_ different libraries _within the same city_. How could a city have so many books that it needed _three_ libraries and yet still had enough books for Masters Watson and Homes to fill a wall of their flat? Yet, according to both Jon Watson and the multiple librarians and booksellers whom he had met there were still far more books within this great city of London.

A city which neither Aragorn nor Gandalf had ever mentioned. A city of _vast_ resources which not only had managed to evade both Sauron _and_ Morgoth's eyes, but had never heard of either of _them_.

"How?"

According to the histories Morgoth had not only reigned over all of Middle-Earth, it had been completely overrun with foul creatures and rebellious Ainur and Maiar for well over an age! How could—

"How what?"

Frodo looked up, startled. Jon Watson stood before him, thankfully with a friendly stance, looking both concerned, and curious.

"I beg your pardon?" the hobbit murmured, uncertain what the man had said.

The man's eyes flicked over him in a typical healer's fashion. "Never mind." He seated himself beside Frodo, keeping a polite, yet unbearably close distance between them. "How are you holding up?"

 _I'm not! I am within ten words of going completely mad! This place is not possible!_ You _are not possible! You tell me that I am perfectly sane and seeing the world as it truly is, yet what then do you call my every memory?! Do you say then that my parents, Bilbo, the Fellowship, Sam, my cousins, the Shire, the Quest itself—all were nothing more than delusions brought on by these medicines which you say can 'warp a person's reality'? What does that even mean? How could— They couldn't be! Their love— their friendship— The Quest!_

"I don't know," was all that he said.

The man's face twitched a little into a sympathetic smile.

They sat silently again, Frodo clutching the Phial of Galadriel tightly. The cool weight and firm curves grounded him to the one thing that he still knew beyond doubt.

 _"And you, Ring-bearer. I come to you last who are not last in my thoughts. For you I have prepared this."_

He closed his eyes, hood drawn low over his brow, knees bent to his chest, wrapped in the cloak which the Lady had gifted him with.

 _"There an' back again, Mr Frodo. Jus' like Mr Bilbo afore."_

 _"We're coming with you; or following you like hounds."_

There were other signs too, Frodo noted as the phial touched the stump of his missing finger. He drew his hand from his pocket and silently examined it. Aragorn had tended it skillfully, yet it _was_ still gone; lost to greed and Gollum and the fires of Mount Doom.

His fingers shifted to his neck, tracing the scars hidden just beneath the high collar of his tunic. Here too, was irrevocable proof of his life.

 _"Magic is nothing more than an excuse which allows simple-minded naïvety and ignorance to overrule logic and reason."_

 _You know nothing, Master Homes._

Scholar, orphan, master of Bag-End; cousin, son, nephew, brother...

Ring-bearer.

 _Less than nothing_...

-0-0-0-

Galadriel's quote and Merry's line about "following you like hounds" are taken directly from The Fellowship of the Ring.


	10. 9 And Then There's the Phone

**Chapter 9 - And Then There's the Phone...**

Frodo was brought abruptly back to wakefulness by he knew not what, trading remembered dangers for unknown ones. Dim light snaked its way into an otherwise darkened room, casting everything into eerie shadows. Pain shot through his neck and body as he moved and he immediately stilled, locking his jaw shut against any noise as he realised that he had fallen asleep sitting. Less than eight feet from him there came a loud snort, and then a sigh, followed by a male cursing as the unknown sound filled the air again. Frodo winced. Harsh, insistent, _loud_ : it was a noise unlike any that the hobbit had heard before, yet he recognised it at once as what had wakened him. Unwilling to move and thus draw the attention of whatever threat he was facing until he could at least see it he watched as the lump eight feet from him shifted and shaped itself into that of a man. He seemed to search for something. Then a light emerged from the depths of the chair, quite as bright as his own Phial, yet far harsher, and the sound somehow redoubled. The man groaned and cursed under his breath again as he raised the light higher.

"What is it?" he barked, sounding alert; ready to take orders and give them as well. _Like a soldier_ , Frodo noted. The noise stopped and the light disappeared.

"Where is the creature?" a small, thin voice harshly demanded. Frodo winced at the choice of wording. His gaze flicked rapidly around the room, still trying not to move. Where was this second person?

There was a pause as the one nearest him seemed to shrink. When he spoke again the words were slow, weary, and angry. He enunciated each word. "You called me at three forty-five in the bloody morning to find out where your _client is?_ "

"A text would be insufficient to wake you at this hour," the thin voice returned, seeming to think that a perfectly acceptable answer.

There was a sound of someone breathing very carefully as if to avoid screaming, and then the man - Jon Watson, his memory finally supplied - casually asked, "D'you think this is why people call you an arse?"

"Probably," the thin voice returned. "Where is it?"

" _He_ is sleeping on the sofa, thanks," Jon returned. Frodo was silently grateful for the stressing of 'he'.

"You're sure?" the thin voice demanded. _That one never asks_ , Frodo noted.

" _Very_ ," Jon growled back.

"Good."

Jon sighed. "Why?" This was followed by a pause and then Jon said, "Sherlock?"

The harsh light abruptly returned as Jon cursed again, and Frodo shied involuntarily, sending more ripples of pain throughout his body.

The man glanced at him and then sighed. "Hey, mate. It's three in the morning; go back to sleep." The light disappeared again.

Frodo shuddered at the thought of willingly climbing back into the abyss from which the noise had first pulled him. "What was that?" he asked instead.

"Sherlock," the man returned wearily, as if that answered everything.

Frodo looked around, openly this time now that the man knew he was awake. "He is here?"

"What? No! No, he's—yeah, go back to sleep," the man dismissed him.

"But - where is Master Homes?" he persisted, still looking in vain for the taller man.

"Still at Bart's, I think," Jon sighed.

The hobbit frowned. "If that is so then how did he cause that other person to speak? Who spoke, and what was the light?"

Jon groaned. "It's my phone."

Frodo waited, When nothing more seemed to be forthcoming he pressed, "And that is?"

"Aren't you tired?" Jon tried.

Frodo felt badly, for the man did seem exhausted, but in truth the dreams would have wakened him within a half-hour's time—or, more likely, woken Jon Watson given the usual bent of his thoughts when his fëa was unquiet—and he had no desire to return to sleep. Indeed, he was hungry. But none of this was mannerly to reveal to one's host during sleeping hours.

"Forgive me, Master Watson," he murmured. "I meant no offence. My curiosity at times can be misplaced and—"

"Yeah, okay, okay," the man protested. "We're good; you didn't offend me. Okay?"

"OK," Frodo returned hesitantly. He'd learnt earlier that this meant 'oll korrect' or 'all right'. It still seemed a very strange thing for Jon Watson to continue to say.

Jon snickered a little at this; likely at the sound of this foreigner using 'his' language. It certainly felt laughable to Frodo.

Of course it is when one does not wish their belly to growl that it will. Frodo felt himself flushing up to his ears as the man sat up very straight and looked at him. The pair studied each other silently for some time.

Finally Jon sighed, burying his face in a hand. "I guess you're not tired," he groaned.

The hobbit flushed again. "No, Doctor Watson," he admitted. His belly gurgled viciously in agreement.

With another tired sigh the man rose to his feet, muttering, "Okay, okay. Are, um, yeah, you're hungry," He looked expectantly towards Frodo.

"Yes," he admitted.

"Um... beans?"

The remark was so very unexpected that at first Frodo could only stare at him in confusion. Then he asked carefully, "Do you mean to eat?"

"Yeah."

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble," he agreed, feeling as if the flush on his face was going to become permanent.

"Right," Jon nodded, and then began to walk away. Frodo watched warily as he shuffled towards the gaping hole which marked the next room. _Was it another lab?_ He vaguely remembered seeing it earlier.

Abruptly harsh light filled the room where the man was, spilling into the front room and temporarily blinding the hobbit.

Once his eyes adjusted to the light Frodo rose and followed his host. He found the man rummaging through a tall, silver...cupboard, possibly?...standing against the far wall of what did appear to be a small lab.

"Kettle'll be boiled in a minute," Jon announced, emerging from the 'cupboard' with a small container.

The hobbit could feel his ears burning again. "Master Watson," he began.

"It's John," the man sighed. He set the container down on a white and black box-like thing with what appeared to be knobs and doors and gave the hobbit an earnest look. "Look, could you do that for me? No 'Doctor Watson', no 'Master Watson', no..oh, _Mr_ Watson, maybe? Just John."

"Very well, Jon," Frodo returned quietly. It seemed overly familiar to address someone (who was not a relative) by their first name within less than a day of meeting each other, but if the man truly desired that Frodo could oblige him.

"Thanks," Jon sighed, this time with relief rather than exasperation. He moved to a different set of shelves and began to rummage further.

Frodo followed him. "If I may, Jon," he tried again. "I understand that you are still quite tired" Jon gave him a wry look over his shoulder "and understandably so," he hurried on, "therefore, if you are willing, I can fix my own meal. All that you need do is tell me what I can and cannot use. Then you can return to sleeping."

Jon laughed, rising with a saucepan in hand. "Do you always talk like a book?" he demanded.

The hobbit flinched. That accusation hadn't been levelled at him since his Brandy Hall days. "It depends upon the day and the circumstances," he answered quietly.

Jon sighed again. "Okay," he muttered. He dumped a brown stuff from the container into the small pot. "Well, thanks for the offer, but given that I had to show you how to work the loo, I think that I'll do the cooking."

Frodo's mouth snapped shut and he backed away, certain that by now his entire body was a giant flush of scarlet humiliation. Thankfully Jon had his back to the hobbit and ignored this, continuing with his puttering and shifting of things on a thin table to the right of the lab.

"D'you want toast?" A blue light abruptly blazed to life atop the black and white box, and Frodo gazed at it in awe, and a little suspicion. What sort of magic was that?

"..Only if it will not cause you trouble," he answered belatedly.

The man gave another wry laugh. "Toast doesn't give me any trouble at all," he returned.

Frodo's own laugh was self-depreciating. "Only guests who won't sleep?" he mocked himself.

This time Jon's laugh sounded true. "Yeah, don't worry about that," he shook his head. "I'd have needed to get up and find out what Sherlock was up to anyway. You're just ensuring that I do."

"I'm not certain whether to say 'you're welcome', or apologise," Frodo mused, glancing sideways at his host.

Jon straightened up briefly gazing towards the wall as if thinking and then said, "Yeah, don't apologise again. Please."

"As you wish," Frodo agreed with a small bow.

The man did not see this and continued with his preparation.

"Would you like me to stoke the hearth?" the hobbit offered, trying to bridge the strange chasm between them.

Jon Watson glanced down at him with a bemused expression. "Why?"

"For the toast."

The man continued to stare at him in confusion. Then slowly his face changed to realisation, followed by irritation, and finishing with resignment. Finally he said, "Yeah, we're not doing that."

"O." Frodo fell back again, anxiously wondering what could be so offensive in his offer. Was it the way that he had worded it? Was it the early hour? Likely, but Master Watson had asked him not to apologise again. So... could it be that _he_ had been the one to say it?

The sound of Jon's spoon scraping along the bottom of the saucepan was loud amidst the silence filling the lab.

After a few minutes the man left off his stirring and turned to face Frodo, crossing his arms a little, but not in a particularly hostile manner. "So," he began casually. "How are you feeling?"

"I beg your pardon?" the hobbit frowned. Surely they had— he stiffened slightly as he remembered what 'doctor' meant.

A hint of a smile played at the corners of Jon's mouth. His eyes, however, remained steady, reassuring... and _probing_. "Yeah," he agreed with the unspoken realisation.

The hobbit shrugged a little. "What can I say?" he forced himself to give the man a small smile. "Given the circumstances I would say that I am doing _very_ well."

"Okay, yeah," Jon agreed. "And not under the circumstances?"

 _A typical healer's response_. Frodo raised a brow. "Doctor Watson," he admonished.

The man's jaw twitched a little. "Look, mate. I get it. You don't know where you are; you don't know who I am... Between Sherlock and the map you really have no reason to trust me, do you? But I am a..heal-er," he pursed his lips in displeasure over the word. "Yeah. I am a healer and—" The kettle began to whistle.

Frodo looked up at it in surprise. Surely they hadn't been up _that_ long! Then he stared at the shrieking glass contraption in confusion. Was that a kettle, or something else altogether? It certainly _sounded_ like a kettle...

Jon sighed as he moved to attend the...contraption. "Tea?" he offered.

"I would be honoured," Frodo answered, bowing correctly.

Jon blinked at him again. "Right," he nodded belatedly. "How do you take it?"

The hobbit's favourite very private indulgence was a tea with cream and a little honey, but did Jon Watson even know what those things were?

"I am content with however you wish to serve it."

The healer must have still been quite tired, for he made an exasperated noise which didn't fit with the patient, albeit frustrated man who had assisted him earlier. "Look, mate. You're going to be staying with us for at least three days, possibly more. I need to know if you've got any allergies or medical conditions that prevent you from eating certain foods; if there's anything which you _have_ to eat for medical reasons; and while we're at it I'd like to at least get you a decent cup of tea. How do you like it?"

 _Three days_. Frodo flinched. Three days of being trapped in this nightmare, far from home or family, with a man who seemed to delight in pointing out Frodo's ignorance of this place. A place where nothing was familiar, not even the books! Between the libraries and the two bookshops which they had searched he had been given ample time to examine the books here, and yet somehow every one of them was wrong. Irregular truly put a more accurate word to the problem, but the word _wrong_ struck at the heart of the matter. Even the books here felt wrong. Cold. Jarring. Irregular.

He shuddered and turned his attention back to his waiting host. "Forgive me, Dr Watson," he confessed, "but all that I truly wish for at this moment is a good cup of strong black tea. Perhaps later my tastes shall change."

The man barked a single laugh. "That I can handle," he smiled, and turned his attention back to his...kettle. "D'you drink coffee?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Yes, I am rather fond of it."

"We'll get some later, once it's light out."

Frodo flushed again. "You needn't do that for me," he began.

"I'm not," his host returned. "Sherlock's using it for an experiment, so I need to go get some anyway. And some milk. And the shopping in general. So on that note, do you have any allergies or medical conditions?"

The voice of Aragorn detailing out the injuries he'd received during the Quest assailed his memory, but he quickly pushed it back.

"I have no requirements for food save that it not be too fiery, or too tasteless."

Jon laughed at his words. "You do realise where you landed? Britain? We're practically _famous_ for tasteless food!"

Frodo felt his heart fall at the words. "You are?" he returned cautiously.

"At least, that's what the tourists say," Jon mocked. With a shrug he added, "Maybe you'll figure out differently."

The hobbit could think of nothing to say to that, so he let it be. Jon Watson too was silent as he finished steeping the tea. Then the mug was handed to Frodo with a half-apologetic, "Hope you like it."

He took the mug cautiously, wrapping his small hand around the handle and attempting to find some sort of balance between the large mug and his injury. _One never truly feels how small they are until they attempt to use a Man's cup_. He gingerly placed his other hand against the side of the mug, and a sigh escaped him as the heat began to warm his chilled fingers. The tea within the mug smelt rich and dark, just as it would have had he been the one to brew it, in a kettle, on the hearth of Bag End. The homesick hobbit inhaled deeply.

He was unaware that he was being observed until Jon said sympathetically, "Has it really been that long?"

There was a kind look on the man's face, and Frodo found himself murmuring, "Nearly eight months." Eight years. Eight _hundred_ years. Could it really only be less than eight months ago that he had left the Shire?

"Yeah, that's a long time to go without a decent cuppa," Jon agreed.

Frodo nearly corrected the man, for Sam and Merry had done their best to ensure that the fellowship had a 'decent cuppa' whenever possible along the journey, but a look in Jon's eye stilled his tongue. The man knew. The soldier had experienced the heartache of being homeless, of wandering the world with no assurance of living through the next day. 'A decent cuppa' to him, as to Frodo, meant the comfort and safety of being home and knowing that your task is over.

The hobbit silently nodded and took a sip of the tea. Jon returned to his pan and... everything else. The smells and noises of cooking were beginning to fill the air nicely. Frodo took a step back at this and examined Jon's position and movements again. Was it... Was it just possible that the strange box-like table was actually a stove? Were stoves usually in labs?

A few minutes later a strange ker- _tick_ noise from a table to the side of the...stove-like contraption broke the silence, startling Frodo. Jon hastily grabbed a plate from a rack beside... Frodo peered at the white basin embedded into another sideboard. Was that a sink? If it was, then was he standing in a kitchen?

"Jon?" he began cautiously. "Forgive my ignorance, but is that a sink and pump beside you?"

Jon stared down at him again with that look of one caught off-guard. Finally he offered, "That is a sink, and a _tap_."

Frodo frowned at him, thinking over the word. Finally he echoed cautiously, "A tap?" and gently tapped the sideboard with one finger.

Jon watched, frowned, and then laughed. "No, no," he hastily corrected, still smiling. "That _is_ a tap, yeah, but here in Britain we also call our...water spigots taps."

Frodo thought that over whilst Jon, seeming to believe the matter finished, returned to his..cooking.

"Again, please forgive my ignorance," Jon gave him a weary look and the hobbit flushed again, but continued doggedly, " _Why_ is it called a tap?"

"No idea," Jon returned carelessly. "Here."

He handed Frodo a plate with the brown stuff, now heated and smelling properly of food, and a slice of nicely done toast. He looked up at the man in startlement.

"'Fraid we don't have any butter," Jon was saying. "He's experimenting with _that_ too. Like I said," he shrugged, rummaging through a drawer, "I need to do the shopping." He stood back up, a fork and knife in hand. "D'you want to eat.." he glanced around the messy room, "in the living room?"

"Wherever you wish, Master Watson," Frodo bowed politely. The man grunted.

As they left the lab Frodo asked, "What sort of experiment is Master Homes doing with the coffee and butter?"

"Basic home preservation," Jon returned. Then he paused. "Actually, since it's Sherlock doing it, probably not that basic at all."

"Food stuffs?" That would be a fine common ground. Perhaps he could even assist Mr Homes—

"No," was the decisive return, accompanied by the grim smile only a battle-hardened soldier could give. Again it seemed as if he'd been weighed in a balance and found wanting. The hobbit quailed inwardly.

Outwardly he smiled and queried politely, "What, then?"

"Eh..." Jon glanced down at him. "With Sherlock's experiments you're really better off not knowing."

"O."

Frodo stood silently, holding his plate whilst the man cleared a space for him on a very crowded table, trying to identify what was in the beans beyond beans and sugar. Perhaps a very subtle amount of onion, and certainly some salt... bacon, perhaps? But what would cause the sauce to be so..reddish? He sniffed more deeply.

"Here you go," Jon announced. He then stepped away, withdrawing his fone from his pocket. "I'm going to see if I can get ahold of Sherlock."

He gave Frodo a half-apologetic smile, raising the fone a little and Frodo nodded, puzzled. Then he decided to put the strangeness of Men out of his mind temporarily and turned to observe the Standing Silence.

 **o**

When he was just over half finished with his plate, which sadly took very little time, Jon dropped into the chair across from him.

"Well, he's not answering."

The man sounded unusually irritated that he could not be heard, particularly since the loudest Jon had become was when he had muttered an annoyed curse at Sherlock—a curse barely loud enough to be heard in the lab (which could be a kitchen). Frodo frowned up at him.

"Did you not say that Master Homes was at Bart's?" he asked cautiously.

"Yeah," Jon muttered. "But if he doesn't answer I don't _know_ that for sure."

"How was, well, forgive me; how _is_ he going to hear you?"

Jon waggled the fone at him again.

In return Frodo raised a brow at him.

Jon groaned. "I forgot; you don't know that!" he muttered.

"No, Doctor Watson."

The man's jaw twitched a little at the words. "Eat your breakfast," he muttered.  
Frodo sighed and deliberately pushed away his plate, much as it pained him to do, and turned to face the man. "Master Watson," he began politely, "I am attempting to make sense of your land and its ways and customs. But it makes.. _no_ sense to me when you claim that Master Homes should be able to hear you from a place..well over a quarter-hour's walk away. Could you please explain to me what a fone is and what it does?"

Jon stared at him for a minute and then groaned again. "You really _don't_ like taking the easy way out, do you?" he accused.

Vividly to Frodo's mind sprang memories of the climb to Cirith Ungol, the wastelands of Mordor, his own small voice at the Council of Elrond... Inwardly he shook them away.

"I have found it better to attempt to understand the people and culture around me, and in that manner hopefully avoid making an grievous blunder of some sort."

The man stared at him for several seconds before.. "Right," he nodded. "Okay. Okay, fine." He glared at the hobbit. "Eat your breakfast, will you? This is going to take a while."

Frodo nodded and pulled his plate closer again whilst Jon continued to scowl, clearly thinking.

"Okay," he finally said. "We of," he paused and eyed Frodo again, "...the modern life.. have developed a way to..communicate with people far away. Em, this is not magic," he added hastily. "It's probably going to seem like it to you because I don't have half of the answers you want. Probably not even a quarter of the answers. But it's _not_ magic."

Frodo nodded, nibbling at his dwindling toast.

"So.. We have developed a way to..send our..voices— _electronically_ —through the air... No."

He paused, seemed to sort through his thoughts, and began again. "Okay, I can't just talk out loud and Sherlock can hear me far away. That's not how the world works, right?"

"It - isn't how my world works," Frodo answered cautiously.

"Yeah, it's not how my world works either," Jon agreed. "But when I talk into this box, into my phone," he raised it a little, "it has a special...electronic part in it which will connect to his phone, far away, and his phone has the same electronic part in it - aaaand, those two electronic parts connect to each other...invisibly, by means of electricity through the air— no, I can't explain it further," he added quickly, "and I'm able to hear him and talk to him - via that.. invisible chain."

Frodo waited, but the man sat back as if finished. Finally Frodo prompted, "Alright..."

Jon sighed. "You don't get it at all, do you?"

"..No."

"You're not going to," the man returned patiently. "I'm sorry, but you're really not. It's.. technology which has been developed over the last one hundred years, give or take a few. And," he breathed a frustrated chuckle, "without going into a lot of _complex_ explanations you're not going to understand it at all."

"Yes," Frodo agreed quietly. He pondered the man's explanation. "Could you explain what elec— eclect— elec- _tron_ -ic is?"

Jon was already shaking his head before the hobbit had finished the word. "No," he laughed, slightly incredulous. "No, I really can't! It's— It's—" He dropped his head into a hand and muttered a curse in an undertone. Frodo stiffened a little in disapproval, but remained silent. It was poor manners to judge a person's language, regardless of how ill-bred the words made Jon seem. And he was clearly trying the Man's patience...

"I withdraw the question," he murmured.

"You can't withdraw the question!" Jon snorted. "If I don't tell you you're going to be wondering about it for the next five days!" He cursed under his breath again, massaging his temples in frustration.

"Okay," he finally started. "I'm sure you guys have lightning, right?"

"Yes!" the hobbit brightened, relieved to hear a word he knew. Then he paused. "Well, allow me to make certain that we speak of the same thing. Lightning where I come from is the forked tongues of light which split the sky during a storm—"

"Yes!" Jon smiled, looking just as relieved as Frodo. "That's lightning. Lighting is—" he paused, frowning thoughtfully at his guest yet again. "Actually... Do you know what lightning is made of?"

Frodo blinked at the question. "Light?" he offered cautiously.

Jon chuckled a little, but not in mockery. "Sort of," he nodded. "Actually, it's made of electricity, and we —of the modern life— have invented a way to harness that electricity and make it work for us."

"Harness it? As one would a pony?" the hobbit echoed incredulously.

"...More or less, yeah," Jon nodded. "If you let a pony just run around doing what it pleases then it's wild, right?"

"It can be," Frodo agreed carefully.

"Maybe even a little dangerous?"

"I would agree..."

"But when you put a harness on it then it has to listen to you and do what you want, right?"

Clearly Jon Watson did not know how stubborn a pony could be at times.

"More or less," Frodo nodded.

"Okay," Jon smiled, clearly feeling that this conversation was going the way that he wanted it to. "That's what we've done to electricity. We've managed to capture it and put a sort of harness on it, and make it work for us. Electricity powers almost everything around here, from the lights," he gestured toward the lamp attached to the ceiling, "to the phones, to the equipment back at the lab— Pretty much anything that you see around here that works by pushing buttons or flipping switches is working because electricity is making it work."

Frodo considered the man's words. "Was the togel switch for Detective Inspector Lestraad's car window working with electricity?"

"Yes," Jon nodded.

Frodo thought a little more. "Very well," he finally nodded. "What then is elec-tronic?"

"That just means that a thing uses electricity," Jon explained. "So, my phone is an electronic because it uses electricity. The light is also an electronic because it uses electricity. The lab equipment, Lestrade's car window, the telly, the microwave.. yeah. You name it, if it uses electricity—"

"It will be an electronic," Frodo finished for him.

"Yeah," Jon smiled.

Frodo pondered this for a while, but in the end was forced to admit that he did not understand this explanation any more than he understood how a Ring could hold the spirit of Sauron. How was lightning to wear anything? How was it to be captured, when it was always there and gone again so quickly?

"I am sorry, Jon," he finally murmured. "Thank you for trying to explain."

"You don't get it?" Jon confirmed.

"No," Frodo admitted. "But it is enough. I understand that somehow you are able to speak into that thing and Master Homes should be able to hear you."

"Yeah," Jon agreed. "And it's not magic."

"No," Frodo agreed, forcing a small smile.

"Sorry I can't be more help."

Frodo's smile became a little smaller. "You did not make me feel foolish for asking, and for that I am grateful."

John winced at the words.

"Yeah," he sighed. "I'm sorry about him too." The duo sat silently for a little while before Jon spoke again. "But for what it's worth, Sherlock makes everyone feel.. foolish. He is a.. certified genius. No-one can do what he does." He paused, and then amended, "Well, a few people can, but... but not _really_."

Frodo nodded silently.

"He... And because he can... Mm..take for example—" he scowled at the word "—yesterday; when he was deducing—when he said all those things about you?"

Frodo scowled a little at the reminder of Mr Homes' invasive words, but nodded.

"How much was accurate?"

"I couldn't understand about half of it," Frodo reminded him.

Jon pursed his lips. "Tr-ue," he returned slowly. "But of what you did understand..."

The hobbit remained silent for a minute, unwilling to give that much of himself to a stranger. In one afternoon Mr Homes had pointed out and "deduced" more about him than he was willing to tell even Freddy or Folco; more than he was even willing to discuss with the Fellowship. Yet, Jon Watson sat waiting for him to affirm the truth of things he could not even bring himself to think of? How would this man react were he to admit just how very accurate the words of Mr Homes, and Doctor Watson himself, had been?

Something shifted in Jon's expression and he nodded with more understanding than he had shown yesterday whilst detailing the hobbit's health to the detective. "Okay," he murmured. "Okay, you don't have to tell me." They sat in silence a little longer.

"But...he can do that to anyone," Jon finally continued. "When he and I met he took one look at me, just..a _quick_ glance," he chuckled, "and then he asked me where I'd been stationed. Just like that he could tell that I was a soldier who'd been to war."

"He could?"

"Yeah, and he knew things about my family, and my habits, and... Just that fast he could look at me and _see_ all these things, and it's crazy. He can do that with _anyone_." Jon paused and his enthusiasm began to fade. "Annd... the problem with that is he doesn't realise that other people can't do the same." At Frodo's look of incredulity he hastily added, "I mean, he does know, yeah. Of course he _knows_ ; he's Sherlock. But..apparently some of the stuff he sees is more obvious than others and he figures that we'll at _least_ be able to see that. And then when we don't...well, that's when he gets... um..." he paused as if searching for the correct word.

"Assertive?" Frodo suggested dryly.

The man grimaced. "..Not a bad choice of words," he admitted.

The words sounded so much like something Bilbo would have said that Frodo felt a tiny smile twitch onto his face.

"He gets really frustrated that no one else can see the clues that he can," Jon explained. "And, yeah.. When he gets frustrated he - tends to get loud about it."

"I see," the hobbit murmured.

"But," Jon added gently, "once he is invested in someone's problem he will move _mountains_ to help them. He just - likes to hide all that behind the bored child façade. So don't tell him I told you that," he added in a confidential whisper.

Again the words were so much like Bilbo's that Frodo almost expected him to place one finger along the side of his nose and wink. Naturally, nothing of the sort happened and Jon sat back as if finished expounding upon the strengths and flaws of Sherlock Homes. The hobbit grinned at him.

"How long have you known each other?" he queried.

"About ten months."

"Do you do much together?"

Jon chuckled at that. "Almost everything," he returned. "Usually I'd be at Bart's too, trying to stay awake while he does his tests or I'll be working on another section of the case, gathering information, interviewing witnesses, and the like. We make a pretty good team, I think. When he bothers to tell me the plan," he added with a touch of irritation.

Frodo smiled a little. "Would you tell me about some of your 'cases'?"

Jon grinned. "Well.. the first time I met Sherlock Holmes..."

 **o**

They talked long, trading tales. Jon learnt much of the Shire and hobbits and their quiet lives and simple ways whilst Frodo heard story after story of the dangers and thrills of life with Sherlock Homes. Jon seemed to love the chaotic life he had, and though he would speak with irritation at times of Sherlock's recklessness Frodo could easily hear how fond he was of the man.

They were deep within a discussion on the pilfering and then preparation of mushrooms when a loud cry of, "JOHN! _JOHN!_ " came from downstairs, accompanied by an excessively loud clatter of feet pounding up the stairs. The pair looked at each other in surprise, Jon's face almost immediately changing to one of anticipation. He rose at once and met Sherlock at the door.

"—amazing! It's remarkable!" the detective was exclaiming, quite loudly enough to waken the landlady downstairs. "I knew that he was unique as soon as I saw him, but even I didn't expect the significance! Not even on the Periodic Table! It's not a trick," he added, not slowing down for breath, but giving Jon a gimlet eye. "Tested it against every element; it's not there! The machine was working fine, but it always erred at _that_ component; it could identify every other element though! I tested it myself while I was waiting for the scans to finish; it has several unique properties. I wasn't able to isolate it yet, but I tested it with several other elements—"

"Wait, slow down!" Jon protested. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock started, his mouth snapping shut as he stared at his friend. "The element in his blood, of course," he countered. "I thought that was fairly obvious."

"Yeah, well, I haven't exactly been in the lab all night," Jon reminded him calmly. "Start over. The last that I knew the only problem was that you say he's not human."

"He's not!" Sherlock returned in surprise just as Frodo sternly put in, "I'm not."

"Okay, okay!" Jon protested, throwing up his hands in a defensive gesture.

"We have been discussing this for some time," Frodo added quietly.

"Yeah, okay!" Jon yelped. "But— c'mon! Not _human_?"

"Eru created several different peoples—" Frodo began.

"Yes, mystical religious beliefs aside the physical make-up of his body proves that he isn't human," Sherlock interrupted, forcing several papers onto his friend. "I printed my findings."

"Now," the detective turned to face Frodo, "we find out what that means."

-0-0-0-

fëa - basically the elven word for soul


	11. 10 - Pieces to the Puzzles

**Chapter 10 - Pieces to the Puzzles**

"And what is this one?"

John barely glanced at the machine in question. "Microwave. It uses electricity to cook things really fast."

The hobit —John supposed that he had to call him a hobit now; he couldn't exactly argue with the seven tests Sherlock had already run proving the claim (the five still in progress he certainly could, but Sherlock's web of conclusions did seem to be tightening)— the hobit gave it an appraising look. "How fast?"

John shrugged. "It'll boil water in two minutes."

Their odd client glanced up at him. "Like your electric kettle?"

"Yeah, more or less."

"Can you cook other things in it?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, you can cook basically anything in it, but you don't really want to do bread. It usually turns out soggy."

"I see." The little bloke eyed the microwave suspiciously.

 _Sure you do_. John didn't call him on it though. "But it'll heat up a great bowl of soup in about a minute or so, while on the stove it'd take.." he shrugged a little, "what, at least ten?"

The blue eyes widened, alight with (what appeared to be) curiosity and awe. "How does it do that?"

John really did try to think, but... "Sorry; I've - got no idea on that one."

The client looked a little unhappy with the answer, but he nodded and moved on.

"This is the stove, correct?"

John blinked. _Didn't you stand there and watch me cooking beans earlier?_

"...Yeah."

"Where do you stock it?"

"Stock it?" John echoed. Surely the creature didn't mean what he thought he meant, right?

The hobit grimaced a little. "That is the term we use back home for adding wood to the fire to keep it alight," he explained.

Yeah, he meant what John had thought.

"Well..we don't actually _do_ that anymore," the man tried. "We used to, but... Now we have a way to keep the fire lit all of the time without ever having to burn wood."

Their little client's gaze whipped away from the stove to stare up at John in shock, and maybe even a little awe. "Do you know how?" he squeaked.

"Nope. Sorry. I know that part of it uses electricity to work, but..." John shrugged a little.

His companion sighed disappointedly. "A shame. That would be a useful thing to know."

"Yeah. Why do you think we invented it?" John deadpanned.

The hobit gave him a wry smile in return.

They'd been running tests since Sherlock got home; sometimes tests on various samples, sometimes Sherlock had been physically running tests on their client - tests which John was carefully supervising to ensure that his overenthusiastic flatmate didn't go too far.

Unlike Sherlock (who, as usual, was a little too nosy for the client to actually like him) he and the hobit seemed to be getting on rather well. Not, of course, to the point that he was going to show the bloke Sherlock's latest _experiment_ , but then again he wouldn't have shown Lestrade or Mrs H the newest addition in the fridge either. In fact, he was still trying to figure out a way to dispose of _it_ without either guest or flatmate noticing.

Yeah, good luck with that.

Right now Sherlock was in the living room studying his wall, which was plastered with the particulars of his newest case, while the client took the opportunity to indulge his "Took nature" (because apparently he was a quarter of a Took and that was _very_ important because "Took nature" was what made him curious), and he was asking about everything in the flat that he didn't recognise, from the Rubik's Cube to the microwave and back again. Right now he was frowning with some intensity at the— John cursed inwardly.

"Jon?" the high voice began cautiously. "Is this not one of the items which Master Homes was using at the lab yesterday?"

John pinched the bridge of his nose, willing himself to be somewhere else, _any_ where else other than here.

It didn't work.

"...Yes," he muttered.

The hobit's head whipped towards him so fast that watching it almost made _John's_ neck ache, and he stared at the man as if in shock for a moment. John resisted the urge to take a step back.

"What?" he demanded.

The little bloke shook his head and returned his attention to the machine.

"Nothing. What is this, please?" The tone was surprisingly calm for the reaction he'd just given.

"Nothing?" John echoed, not believing it for a second.

"You merely reminded me of someone I know," the hobit explained. "It startled me. Now, if you please..."

So polite and _so_ persistent. With a sigh the doctor surrendered. "That's a microscope."

"A my-crow-scope?"

"Yeah. It's for...er... finding the.. invisible clues in a case."

Another startled, almost scared, look was shot at him, but then the hobit immediately glanced away again, resuming his neutral expression.

"Invisible clues?" he echoed casually.

"Yeah, well, we of the modern life," a phrase which had practically taken on a life of its own overnight, "tend to call them cells and bacteria and... other things."

"Sells and backteareea," the hobit echoed, as if trying to commit the words to memory.

John was going to murder the bastards responsible for this. It was two thousand bloody ten; there wasn't a person in Europe who shouldn't know basic body structure and what cells were! Taking a grip on the worn tatters of his patience he began yet another long and somewhat convoluted conversation, this time on the basic physiology and anatomy that the little bloke should really have learnt back in primary school.

-0-

"So, in summary of what you are saying, all things, both living and not, are made of these small building blocks called _cells_ , and because they are so small it is impossible to see them without a my-crow-scope. Correct?"

Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of explaining and arguing, and the hobit managed to reduce it all to one sentence. John didn't know when he'd last felt so completely frustrated by _any_ one (other than his flatmate, of course). He was not a teacher! He was a soldier and a captain, an army doctor, a former surgeon, lately a blogger and a GP... He didn't exactly work with people who had less than a ten-year-old's knowledge about science! If this turned out to be Mycroft's idea of a joke then the 'British Government' was going to find out (first hand, without sneaking through John's personal files!) how hard his fist was!

"Yeah."

"And this my-crow-scope shows one these small building blocks, these cells, not by magic, but by use of light and glass pieces shaped and placed - just so."

"Yep."

"Remarkable," the hobit murmured.

John felt his brows twitch a little, and quickly looked away to hide his frustration. The poor bloke should have gotten over this awe in secondary school, but here he was, 30 years old, marvelling over a machine that he really should be so familiar with that ten years ago he would have been ready to shove up his teacher's—

"Jon?" The quiet voice was hesitant. "Might I ask a favour?"

The doctor raised an eyebrow, curious. Their client hadn't asked him _for_ anything since the fiasco of the map last night. Yeah, he'd asked a lot of questions (hard questions!), but his only actual requests since The Map had been that Sherlock keep some of the more personal information he was deducing to himself, and then later that the experiments stop. (Both of which had been ignored.)

"What is it?"

Frodo hesitated a moment longer, and then asked quickly, almost as if he was afraid of offending (well, he always seemed to be afraid of _that_ ), "May I see it?"

John blinked. "The microscope?"

"The cells?" the other returned quietly, and..was that — _excitement_ beneath all that careful formality? Was the poor bloke really so eager to learn about the world?

"Of course you can," John agreed and moved to the microscope himself, nearly missing the delighted smile that spread across their guest's face.

"Thank you," and the hobit gave him yet another of those irritating little bows.

John sighed a little, but still, "No problem," he smiled. "Now, what do you want to look at?"

The poor creature looked a little shocked. "What choices do we have?"

"Well..." That was a good question. "Technically we could use anything." _Technically_ , yeah, but it would probably be a disaster if John showed him how many life forms lived in a water droplet, and any sort of blood experimentation was definitely out of the question with this bloke. Dirt would be as bad as water... And there was absolutely no way that he was about to take a mold sample out of the fridge!

"True," the hobit agreed carefully. "Then we needn't look at - matters of the body, as Master Homes does?"

 _Master Holmes._ Sherlock was never going to let that one go.

"Not necessarily," John returned, "but that _would_ be easier to see than a lot of other things." And a disaster waiting to happen! His mind scrambled for a suggestion.

"What if we tried a strand of your hair?"

The hobit took what appeared to be an involuntary step back, his eagerness vanishing. "My hair?" he faltered.

"Yeah," the doctor smiled, liking this suggestion. "That'll be an easy way to see what it's like. Just, go ahead and pick a hair while I get out the slide."

"Slide?" the hobit echoed cautiously.

"Yeah, basically it's a glass plate that we'll put your hair on so we can study it."

"O."

Slide removed and carefully held in his hand John turned to collect the hobit's hair, only to find the little creature motionless, studying him as if he was some rare form of spider.

"What?" John demanded crossly, patience nearly at its limit.

A few more seconds passed before the soft voice murmured, "Nothing." His hand slowly moved to his forelock, where he cautiously plucked a hair and held it out to the doctor.

 _Would you quit looking at me like I might eat you!_

John nodded at the hair. "Okay. Look at it and tell me what you see."

The hobit withdrew his hand, still gazing at the man and not at the folicle. "It's - my own hair," he returned hesitantly.

"Describe it," John suggested.

The cautious gaze dropped to the hair and remained there for several seconds, silently examining it. "It's dark," he finally answered, "and curly, and rather short, although not as short as yours, I dare say." He gave the man a cheeky smile. It looked forced.

"Yeah, no," John agreed with a (much more genuine) grin of his own. "D'you see anything else?"

"It shines," the hobit offered. "And there seems to be a white knob on one end which is rougher in nature and very different from the rest of the hair. However, this knob seems to be smoothing away as I run the hair between my fingers, so it cannot be made of anything permanent."

John was a little impressed at the thoroughness of the observation. "Okay, that's good," he nodded. "Now, just put your hair on this slide." He held it out and Frodo cautiously placed the strand on the glass. "Now I just place this here— you can clearly see that there's no magic involved, right?" The bloke was abnormally worried about magic. Which, yeah, it _did_ make sense to be worried about that sort of thing if you'd been conditioned to think of the world in medieval terms. Poor sod.

"None that is obvious, at least," their client countered. John glanced at him and the hobit gave him another cheeky grin, this one looking considerably more real. John rolled his eyes a little.

" _No_ magic," he repeated, then pulled out the chair in front of him. "Climb up."

The little bloke clambered onto the seat and watched intently as John explained how the lenses worked, what the various knobs did, why the microscope had lights on it, etc. When the hobit appeared to be (semi)comfortable with how to work the machine John stepped back.

For a minute or so the kitchen was peacefully quiet whilst Frodo carefully worked the knobs. Then, the hobit became very still. The minute or so that now passed seemed to crawl by as John waited for some form of reaction.

He got it.

Their client abruptly spun towards him, so quickly that John thought he might fall off of the chair, and demanded sharply, "What. Is that?"

"Should be your hair," John shrugged, trying to seem unconcerned for Sherlock's (very expensive) microscope. "Want me to look?"

"Yes, please." He hopped off of the chair and John leaned in to peer through the eyepieces. The hair was a little out of focus, but the doctor couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. He adjusted the focus a little more and then nodded.

"Yeah. That's what a hair looks like when it's — if you were incredibly small, like.. smaller than an ant." ( _Much_ smaller.)

"It cannot be," Frodo protested. "Hair is smooth and thin and this is cracked like the ground in summer when the rains forsake the land!"

More poetry.

John pursed his lips. "Do you want one of mine? You can.. compare them?"

The hobit faltered in the midst of what looked to be the start of a long tirade and studied him warily. Slowly he nodded. "If you would be so kind," he agreed.

With a slight (unavoidable) twitch of his eyebrow (as the bizzarity of the situation crashed on top of him again) John plucked a semi-longish strand from his head and handed it to the hobit. He took it, glanced at it, and then stood there studying _John_ with the strangest look on his face. Finally he said, "You truly _don't_ believe in magic, do you?"

"Nope," John agreed.

The hobit continued to stare, hair still pinched between his fingers, frowning. At last he nodded and finally (!) placed the other hair on the slide and began the adjusting process.

He studied the hairs silently for a while, sometimes adjusting one or the other on the slide, sometimes adusting the knobs to see what each did; even going so far as to add one more of his own hairs to the mix. Once he was done he climbed off of the chair and looked up at John, a little abashed. "My apologies," he murmured. "It truly is my hair, and I should not have accused you of attempting to deceive me. It was completely uncalled for and I am sorry." He bowed low, humbly, to the doctor.

 _Okay, mate, okay! Don't overdo it_.

"It's okay," he shrugged. "Don't worry about it."

Frodo still looked worried anyway. "Can you forgive my behaviour?"

 _Oh, for_ —! John took a deep breath. Exhaled. "Yes, of course I will," he tried. "I didn't take offence. You're new here after all." He smiled, trying to reassure his (very formal, very polite) guest. "It's not like you know how these things work. _And_ ," he quickly continued as the hobit opened his mouth, "yeah, you did doubt what I said, but it's natural for _anyone_ to question something they don't understand. What matters is that you took the time to see if your opinion was correct or not, and when you found the facts you were willing to believe the truth. That's better than any apology, okay?"

The hobit gazed back, and then a little smile twitched his lips and he ducked slightly. "Very well," he murmured. "Thank you, —Jon."

The doctor shrugged a little. "No problem."

Frodo nodded, attention drifting back to the machine. "If I may," he began carefully.

John shrugged again. "Go ahead." Sherlock could never resist the lure of the microscope for long either.

"Why is it important to see these cells and backteareea, and hairs which look the size of logs and such things?"

John blinked. Okay, a question wasn't quite what he'd been expecting, but he recovered quickly. "Most of the time it's not, but when you're a detective" ( _scientist_ ) "you've got to know that sort of thing."

"Why? How does being able to see these things possibly help Master Homes?"

"Well... okay, let's go back to cells are like blocks. D'you remember that?"

"Yes."

"So, all building blocks —all _toy_ building blocks," he hastily corrected himself, "— are made out of wood, right?"

"Yes."

"But they're all— well, they all _can be_ different types of wood, or different colours or shapes?"

The hobit smiled at little. "They can be, yes."

"Okay," John nodded. "Cells are the same way. A metal pan is going to be made of different 'blocks' than a plastic bin, or a glass mug."

The hobit was nodding slowly. Encouraged by this John continued. "And, going a bit deeper, an aluminium pan is going to have different 'blocks' than an iron one."

"A what?"

"Uh..." John almost kicked himself. "An oak tree is going to have different blocks than an ash," he hastily corrected. Metals, plastics, and all modern materials were out; plant life and trees were _in_ , at least as far as the bloke's vocabulary was concerned.

"But what is aloo— al-you—"

"Later," John groaned. "It's - just a different type of metal; let's worry about that later. Would an oak tree and an ash tree be different from each other?"

"Yes."

"So their basic components, their cells, which are the essential pieces that make them what they are; they'll be different too, right?"

"It stands to good reason," the hobit agreed.

 _English professor_.

"Right." John pushed back his annoyance yet again. "So, Sherlock can take a little sliver of the oak and a little sliver of the ash, and look at them together under the microscope, just like you did with the hairs, and he'll be able to tell which came from which tree, just by looking at how the 'building blocks' are shaped."

"The cells," Frodo said slowly. His brow was furrowing again. Not a good sign.

"Yeah."

The hobit nodded. Still frowning.

John gave in with a sigh. "What's wrong?"

With a sigh of his own the client admitted, "Forgive me, but I still do not understand how this is helpful to Master Homes." John noticed that the tips of his ears were turning pink. Again. He'd noticed them doing that a lot over the course of the morning.

 _Maybe that's one of his 'tells' for embarrassment_.

"He can do the same thing with - clues that pertain to cases," John tried. "Like... Okay, mate, he's a detective," he hastily reminded the (rather squeamish) bloke. "He solves crimes. That's what detectives do. They solve crimes, and puzzles, and catch criminals. Okay?"

He received a hesitant nod.

"So, if a person dies and there's no obvious wound to tell us how it happened Sherlock can look at the person's blood and such, and he'll be able to figure out _if_ the victim was poisoned, and if so, with what."

The hobit winced a little at the mention of poison, but (thankfully!) made no comment.

"And he can figure out what brand of cigarette produced a certain pile of ash, which could help him figure out the last hours of a—leading up to a crime, or pinpoint a certain suspect out of a group of other people. It's really a very useful tool in detective work," John concluded cheerfully.

Frodo was still frowning. "But, what has this to do with me? I haven't been poisoned or...as far as I know I've not used a sig-er-et, yet Master Homes was studying _me_ at Bart's yesterday; my blood and spittle. Why? What was he looking for?"

That - was the question he'd really hoped their client wouldn't pick up on. He tried for casual. "We didn't know for certain that you hadn't been poisoned in some way, so..." He shrugged, trying to let the words trail away, but the hobit's eyes had already narrowed in suspicion.

"The drugs," he stated flatly.

John winced.

"..Yep."

The hobit's jaw clenched a little. "Master Watson, I believe that I stated quite explicitly—"  
"Look, mate, Sherlock's a detective," John protested. "Double-checking and triple-checking everything is part of his job! It's really nothing against you; he doesn't take anyone at their word except himself. And sometimes he even questions that," he added thoughtfully. The man in the car boot in Surrey definitely came to mind...

"I need samples of everything you're wearing," a posh voice barked, and Frodo jumped nearly a foot into the air before turning to face Sherlock Holmes, standing in the doorway with that intense energy almost rolling off of him.

John straightened, alert and ready for action. The hobit, however, tipped his head back so that he could look Sherlock in the face and returned coolly, "I see, and what clews do you expect to find in scraps of my clothing?"

John smirked at the choice of words, but had to admit that it was necessary. Sherlock was being rather an arse currently (John personally thought that it was at least partial retaliation for Frodo constantly being so slow on the uptake), and their client had quickly learnt that simply asking 'why' or 'what do you need those for' only earned him a rather snappy, 'For the case!'

"Placement."

 _But of course the git could always do_ that.

"Placement?" the little bloke prodded.

Sherlock stared him with narrowed eyes for about three seconds before, "It's obvious at a glance that the cloth is handspun; the threads are too irregular for anything less. Fiber choices are all natural: wool, flax, silk; all fabrics easily produced in the 12th century. Given your base knowledge and alleged history nothing less than regionally available materials would do, apart from the silkworms. By studying the fabrics of your clothing I'll be able to determine _what_ region the materials used come from and likely place your city within a thirty mile radius."

John wasn't surprised when, after a few seconds thought, their little client turned to him for an explanation.

"Basically, he thinks he can figure out where Minis Tirith is by studying your clothing," John explained, bracing himself for another round of twenty minute explanations.

"Yes," the hobit agreed quietly. "But, if you will pardon the question, what is a raideeus?"

John blinked. Stared. Finally he spoke. "You... understood what he was saying?"

"Yes, he spoke quite plainly," the hobit nodded. "The only words which I did not understand were 'raideeus' and 'twelveth senchury'."

John knew that he was gaping but he couldn't help it; his brain reeled at the simple 'yes'. Twelve hours of explaining _everything_ to this little bloke, and now—

"Radius is the distance from the outer edge of a circle to the exact centre, in this case the likely area the materials used would be found," Sherlock barked. "Twelfth century means the medieval period, referring to the likely time period your clothing seems to be based on. Any modern dictionary would tell you this; that's why I gave you the book!"

A light flush stole into the client's pale face again and, sure enough, the tips of his ears pinkened. "Your pardon, Master Homes," he bowed a little. "I meant no slight upon either you or your gift. The fault lies entirely on myself and my - inability to use it."

He was so ridiculously _formal!_ What was _with_ this bloke?!

Sherlock glared down at their client for a few seconds before snapping, "C-E-N-T-U-R-Y!" He then turned and stalked out of the kitchen, throwing back over his shoulder as a parting shot, "I need those samples!"

"Then we seemed to have reached a standstill, Master Homes," Frodo returned quietly. John heard the detective stop in his tracks. "For there are things which I need of you as well, if I am to willingly comply."

Sherlock reentered the room, scowling at the hobit.

"My needs are simple," he continued. "I require only a scissor to make the cuts, a needle and thread to mend them," Sherlock was rolling his eyes, ready to interrupt, "and a private room where I may make my selections without interference."

The words were deceptively quiet, but the minute he said 'private' John knew that _this_ was their client's real goal. Thirty minutes of just being in the same room as Sherlock Holmes was more than most people could stand, let alone three hours of intensive study and excessive energy focused solely on one person. There were definitely reasons that clients didn't usually stick around during the investigation. Too painful.

(For anyone who _didn't_ know him personally, of course.)

"Toilet," Sherlock snapped back.

 _On the other hand, when he does something like that_... John groaned inwardly.

To John's surprise, after considering it for a moment the hobit nodded. "I believe that would do. And the tools?"

"Of course," Sherlock returned, looking expectantly at John. The doctor huffed a sigh, but moved towards the junk drawer and began rummaging for the thread that he knew _ought_ to be in there.

-0-

Once their client was ensconced in the loo with his "required items" John made his way into the living room to find his flatmate lying on the sofa, eyes closed, hands steepled together in that thinking position of his.

"Right," John began.

"On the table is an envelope addressed to Zachariah Conner. Take it to the address listed and give it to him. Tell him that Sherlock Holmes is calling in that favour."

John's brows rose at the assumption that he was willing to run errands, but it still hardly took more than a glance before he found a thick manilla envelope addressed to said Conner perched atop the stacks and piles of Sherlock's books, papers, old crime scene photos ( _better put those away before the client notices them!_ ), and other detritus. He picked it up, and then stood there arguing with himself about how pointless anything he said would be.

"Problem?" Sherlock's careless voice cut across his thoughts.

"Er... You're not going to.. I dunno, bother him while I'm gone, are you?"

Sherlock didn't seem to hear him.

"Because I get the feeling that this bloke is really private. Like..possibly even more private than you."

One eye cracked open slightly and slid lazily towards him. Encouraged, John continued, "And I think that if you bother him while he's..in his private spot—"

"Toilet," Sherlock supplied irritably, eye sliding shut again.

"—R-ight." And if _that_ didn't blow up in their faces before the end of day John was going to be shocked. "But he's not going appreciate it if you—"

Sherlock had opened both eyes now and was glaring at John as if daring him to go further.

"—if you _bother_ him while he's working—"

"Working?!" Sherlock scoffed.

John levelled a glare of his own at his flatmate. "Look, you want this case, don't you?"

"Afraid he'll vanish while you're gone?" Sherlock mocked.

Well, if John was honest...

"He has nowhere to go," the detective sneered.

"Mate, you can always find _some_ place," John retorted.

"Oh, yes. The sewers and the cesspits. I hear that Vauxhall Arches is particularly nice this time of year—"

"Any of 'em will do if you're desperate enough," John countered quietly.

"He's not."

"You're sure?"

Sherlock heaved what sounded suspiciously like a long-suffering sigh. "Despite his ridiculous lack of _useful_ knowledge the creature is not without intelligence. He is aware that if he leaves he is essentially turning down my help. Lestrade is obviously an authority figure, indicating to the creature, erroneously I might add, a measure of intelligence. If Lestrade says that I am the only one who can help him, as he did, then the creature will understand that I am, in fact, the _only_ one who can help him get home. He'll remain here as long as he wants any kind of help."

"He's - not a creature," was the only retort John could think of.

"He's as much a one as you," was the dismissive comeback. "Envelope."

Stifling a sigh of his own John let the subject drop. He'd tried. If Sherlock didn't have a client when he got back it wouldn't be John's fault.

"What's in this, anyways?"

"Evidence."

John's stomach nearly flipped. "Your DNA findings?" he asked, trying to sound casual. Sharing that sort of information would probably be the proverbial straw that broke the client's trust.

"Volcanic ash," Sherlock corrected.

"Oh!" _Okay, good. That's good_.

"There were trace amounts in the sample I took from his feet. Volcanoes bear highly unique signatures, and a trained vulcanologist will be able to accurately read which volcano the ash is from and how long ago the eruption was."

John thought that through a moment. "..Pinpointing the location of Minis Tirith."

Sherlock's face lit up a little in that way that it seemed to whenever John finally 'got' an important clue. "Exactly. Now—!"

John nodded and marched out the door. In seconds he was back.

"Sherlock?" he began hesitantly. "Have you considered the possibly that this might be a hoax?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," the detective murmured, eyes closed again. He'd returned to his 'thinking position' the moment John left, it seemed.

"And?"

"Improbable. Too many details add up to exactly what he claims."

John nodded, still not convinced. "Could Moriarty do that?"

"Not his style."

"Yeah—"

"There's no crime involved."

"Yeah, okay, no. No, I agree. It's not his style." John took a breath. " _But_ could he fool you into thinking that he was...like this bloke?"

Sherlock's eyes opened, giving him an annoyed glare. "No."

"Okay."

"It's not only the details; it's the _lack_ of other details. Missing calluses, uncertainties in wording, gaps in his knowledge, details that would be there if he'd spent even a month in the 'modern world'. No. There's too much attention to what you would call 'the insignificant details' for a hoax."

"Oh." What else was there to say? He turned to head down the steps again. Then came back again. "What about—"

"No."

John huffed. "You don't even—"

"You were going to ask if this is some form of government conspiracy. No."

John pressed his lips together. Clenched his fist. Then...

"Someone rewrote him, Sherlock. You didn't spend the evening with him. Somehow, _someone_ has wiped all knowledge of Europe from his mind. He has no geography, no science, no form of proper history— I-it can't just be that his entire community is like this and leave it at that! He has _nothing!_ He's constructing his _own_ geography, his _own_ history! You _can't_ just say that his community is like this because if they are what happened to his people?!"

"They're morons," Sherlock returned dispassionately.

"It's got to be more than that!" John protested. "Morons don't invent seven hundred mile long mountain chains. They don't rewrite the world to put 'The Sea' on the left. He believes, Sherlock, that he walked across the world in six months, but he never saw any electricity? How do you explain that?"

"Maps can be faked—"

"But he says he walked them," John countered, more quietly than before. "You say that he's not lying, so how could he have done that?"

Sherlock's jaw twitched almost imperceptibly. "Still working out the particulars," he admitted.

John nodded, remembering the devastated young man from last night. "He really believes it, Sherlock," he muttered.

"Yes, we've established that," his flatmate countered irritably. "Now, Conner! I cannot solve the case without clues!"

"Right, fine; going!" And John hurried out of the living room again.

He was intercepted at the bottom of stairs by Mrs Hudson, who, with a comment of, "Oh, good, there you are, love; just take those, will you?" thrust a carton of eggs and a bag of tomatoes at him, her own arms already juggling a covered pan which smelt wonderfully of bacon and beans and a basket filling the air with the aroma of sticky buns.

"Wha—"

"I thought," Mrs Hudson was continuing her march up the stairs. John hurried to follow, "since it _is_ the first day, that I'd make you boys a proper breakfast. Just this once though, mind, dear, I'm not your housekeeper."

"Yeah, no," he agreed half-distractedly. "Thanks, Mrs H; he's going to love this!" One never knew; Sherlock might even eat, since there were sticky rolls.

"I hope so, dear," she agreed cheerfully. "How is the case coming?" (After the hobit had fallen asleep on the sofa last night John had run downstairs to warn the older lady that they had a client staying with them.)

"Eh..." John shrugged a little. "Honestly? This one might give him a serious run."

"Oh dear," she frowned. Near the landing she paused, turning back to John with a worried look. "You don't think it's that dreadful man again, do you?"

"Moriarty?" At her grimace and nod John sighed. "He doesn't."

She gave John a searching look at that and then nodded and bustled to the entrance to their flat, knocking with a cheery, "Ooh-ooh!" There was no answer.

Mrs H bustled into the room. "I made you some breakfast, dear, just this once, since you have company," she announced, heading for the kitchen.

Sherlock didn't move, apparently thinking.

"And I'm expecting you to eat some, young man," she added in a motherly, scolding way. "This could be a very long case and I don't want you getting sick because you forgot to eat."

Still nothing, even as John hurried by as well.

Once out of Sherlock's sight John raised a brow at Mrs Hudson. "Well, I guess we know why he wanted me out of the flat so quickly."

"It's a good thing," she reassured him conspiratorially, setting her bundles on the stove. "You'll be able to eat something before he has you running all over town."

That drew a chuckle out of him. Then he began helping her pull dishes out of the cupboards.

-0-

Breakfast (or as their guest insisted for himself, second breakfast, "Since I already had one," he laughed) was a brilliant success. Mrs Hudson was utterly smitten with their guest, who had insisted that the landlady eat with them (well, _John_ had been going to insist too, but _someone_ beat him to the punch), and kept calling him a shameless flatterer. He insisted that he spoke nothing but the truth of one who made such wonderful sweet rolls (and he also claimed that was high praise coming from a hobit). She also brought them news that two people had come to the flat last night looking for Sherlock and Frodo Baggins. Their names? Yussef Walitch and _Sam_. Their client was in shock when he heard that a potential 'Sam' had shown up, and when Mrs H described the pair (at John's request) he was practically beside himself with excitement. Apparently a "young man with curly hair, a little shorter than you, Dear" (meaning Frodo) "wearing a grey cloak and a very handsome Medieval costume" was an accurate description of Frodo's friend from the tower. What was more, they were planning on calling again this morning.

At this news Frodo finally seemed to come out of his shell. He began smiling, and visiting with what might even pass for cheerfulness, complimenting the food, asking questions of Mrs Hudson's life, and when asked regaling them with tales of friendship and food and laughter and boyish pranks and _food_ (apparently Frodo _loved_ food, which stood in painful contrast to the borderline anorexia his _body_ currently displayed) from his own life. John was pretty sure that he learnt more about their client in that one meal than Sherlock had in his entire night's studying. (Not that he would have ever believed what the hobit was saying if Sherlock hadn't first proven their client's..um, uniqueness.) John actually got a decent meal in his belly before Sherlock started him running errands, as Mrs H had promised (which would have made the meal a success all by itself!). And wonder of wonders, Sherlock even got up and had a sweet roll and tea! (Even if he _did_ keep giving John irritated looks the entire time for being _here_ and not _there_ with Zachariah Conner.)

They were deep into their third cups of tea and Frodo was in the middle of a story about a bet to get someone (another cousin, apparently called Fatty) into a tree when the doorbell rang. Everyone started a little (except possibly Sherlock), but their little guest nearly leapt out of his chair in shock (or possibly alarm) at the sound. John had to stifle a chuckle as the wide blue eyes turned towards him...yeah, and that was definitely alarm.

"That's the doorbell," he offered, rising to answer it.

The hobit stood as well. "May I join you?" he asked.

John almost said yes, but the memory of Chinese acrobats flashed through his brain.

"Eh, why don't you hang back a bit until we're sure of who's out there," he suggested.

The other nodded in understanding and the pair hurried down, the hobit stopping just before he could round the corner of the landing to the front door, whilst John continued down.

An average-looking man about his age, appearing to be of Middle Eastern descent, stood on the step looking anxious, but trying to put on a polite face, and beside him was a sturdy-looking kid with a wild head of curls, dirty blond instead of dark brown, a grey cape... and a pair of overly large dress shoes. The little bloke was almost vibrating with anticipation, _or more accurately_ , John thought as he studied the barely composed face, _anxiety_.

"Good morning, sir," the man began, and John realised with a start that this was the man from the booth in Camden yesterday whom Sherlock had questioned. "My name is Yussef Walitch, and this is Sam. Forgive us for disturbing you this early, but my friend and I were hoping that you could help us."

"We're a-lookin' for—Mr Frodo!" Sam yelped, ducking under John's arm and dashing forward.

"I'm here, Sam," a high, clear voice laughed, ringing through the air as John had not heard his guest's voice do yet, and John turned to watch 'Sam' pelt towards the stairs. Frodo was heading down towards him just as quickly, and they met at the carpet, embracing as if they'd separated for a month rather than a night. Sam was almost crying.

"You're here. Bless y', sir; you're alive!" he choked into Frodo's shoulder.

"Sam," Frodo murmured softly. "My dear Sam."

A soft laugh behind John recalled his attention and he turned to see the orange juice seller giving the pair a warm look.

"You'll have to forgive him," the man smiled. "He's been half-frantic with worry for his friend all night. I honestly don't know _what_ he would have done if Frodo hadn't been here."

" ' feared as I'd never see y' again," the new hobit mumbled. "This place is so huge, an' I didn' know where t' look..."

"Shh, hush now," Frodo softly soothed. "I'm here, Sam. You found me. I'm all right."

"Yeah," John muttered, glancing back at the pair. And then, "Yeah! Frodo's been about the same, and that was _without_ knowing anyone was here."

The man's smile widened and he held out a hand. "Yussef Walitch."

"John Watson; nice to meet you— properly this time," he added with a grin, shaking the man's hand.

"Y' ain't hurt, are y'?" Sam demanded anxiously.

"No. No," Frodo quickly reassured him. "And you?"

"No, I'm fine," the other hobit returned shakily. "You're all right," he repeated, still sounding on the verge of tears.

"Come on in?" John offered again. "Sherlock'll want to hear about how you found him."

The other man hesitated. "Actually, I really should get to my booth—"

The doctor offered a sympathetic smile. "Yeah, and technically I'm supposed to be working today too," he nodded. "I'm sorry. I really do understand, but if I know Sherlock he'll want to hear your side of the story, and if you leave he'll probably hunt you down and scare off your customers. Trust me. I can't tell how many times he's done that to my patients."

"How in Middle Earth did you get here?" Frodo was now demanding of Sam. John paused, wanting to know that as well.

"Oh, same way as you, sir, I reckon," Sam shrugged. "Set down on a bench; stood up in Camden Mark'et. Ridiculous way to travel, sir, beggin' your pardon."

Frodo laughed. "Agreed. Far worse than eagles or oliphaunts."

"Now, I'd love to travel by oliphaunt, sir; can y' imagine?" Sam returned eagerly.

John frowned at the pair. What were they going on about?

"It wouldn't be too high?" Frodo asked, cocking an eyebrow at his friend.

"Well, mebbe so," Sam nodded uncomfortably. "But to try it, even jes' oncet! That _would_ be a tale to tell back home, an' no mistake!" His eyes were shining at the thought.

Frodo's smile softened. "As if we haven't strange enough tales to tell," he murmured.

"Aye," Sam sighed, his own smile fading. "Beggin' your pardon, Mr Frodo, but where are we?"

" _Don't_ answer that!" commanded an imperious male voice from above them all. Four heads whipped towards the sound. "The validity of the witness's testimony is compromised if you tell him anything. A witness's testimony should stand by itself, without regard for either the defendant or prosecution's claims."

John winced as he saw their client's face change from startlement to that carefully neutral expression which John had become so familiar with over the last several hours—the one which Mrs Hudson and (second) breakfast had managed to drive away earlier. The other hobit glared up at Sherlock indignantly. John's mind immediately began scrambling for damage control as he hurried towards the stairs, his guest(s), and especially his idiotic flatmate.

"Now see here!" the newcomer barked. "You've no call t' be sayin' such things, an' to Mr Frodo o' all people!"

"Peace, Sam," Frodo murmured. "It will not do any good."

"But, Mr Frodo," the other protested. "He oughtn't an' y' know it, 'specially not—"

"Peace!" Frodo repeated a little more forcefully, and 'Sam' quieted into angry mutters. John paused. Maybe he wouldn't need to intervene? "Besides, he is right. If Merry and Pippin were to tell us a wild tale such as this you and I would both be more inclined to believe them if we knew that it was impossible for Merry to have told Pip what to say."

"..Aye, that's true enou'," Sam agreed reluctantly. "But still, to claim that _you_ —"

" _Therefore_ ," Frodo interrupted again, "you should probably speak with Master Homes as soon as possible." He looked back to Sherlock and said politely, "Would you not agree, Mr Homes?"

"Not only a peerage, but a high-ranking one, reluctantly accepted, possibly given on the sole merit of your friendship with the 'king', possibly for something you feel you didn't do..." was Sherlock's cryptic response.

The blood drained from Frodo's face. Next to him, Sam's own turned bright red.

"Both," Sherlock concluded.

"HE DID IT!" Sam was storming up the stairs, and, was that _murder_ in his eyes? "You've got no call to go talkin' 'bout things as y'—"

"Sam, don't!" Frodo half-yelped, panic sending him bolting up the stairs after his friend. John followed quickly.

Sam immediately stopped in his rampage and turned around, still clearly livid. "But, Mr Frodo—"

Frodo, two steps lower than the newcomer, just looked up at Sam and murmured, "Don't." The word barely audible. "Please, don't."

Sam stared back, anger and pleading, and...pain? on his face. John waited, watching the pair. Apparently their client was still trying to hide a few secrets from Sherlock. Above them all Sherlock was watching too, silent. Analyzing.

With a sigh Sam gave in, bowing his head a little in acquiescence and coming back to Frodo's side. A little of the colour seemed to return to Frodo's face.

"Interesting," Sherlock murmured.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John offered from the landing, for the overprotective Sam had whipped back around at the word, fire igniting his brown eyes again. Frodo grabbed his arm at the same moment.

Sherlock blinked at his flatmate as if he had only just realised that he was there. John snorted.

Then he remembered their other guest. Turning back toward the door he saw that Mr Walitch hadn't left, seemingly transfixed by the commotion. John offered him a smirk which he hoped didn't look too tired. "Did I mention that he's a prat?" he asked cheerfully.

The orange juice vendor shook his head carefully. "You're certain that he'll need me?" he asked reluctantly.

"Yeah, you'd better come up."

A/N

'I cannot solve the case without clues' is actually a paraphrase of Robert Downy Jr's Sherlock, "Data, data, data; I cannot make bricks without clay!" I really loved that movie, and that Sherlock too.


End file.
